


Exodus

by greybaron



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Other, Pre-Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-08 03:08:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 32,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8828089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greybaron/pseuds/greybaron
Summary: Following a freak storm in Little Whinging, ten-year-old Harry Potter finds himself on the run in a wizarding world he has only just discovered, and pursued by men with wands and a powerful dark force that wants him dead. Guided only by a mysterious voice in his dreams, Harry begins a journey across Britain to a place he knows only from a strange letter, as rumours persist that his parents' killer has risen from the dead...





	1. The Letters From No One

The day had started out like any other, that is, with a face-full of dust in the cramped cupboard under the stairs where Mr Harry Potter of Number 4, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey lived. Fresh off a grounding for a mysterious incident involving a boa constrictor at the London Zoo, Harry was enjoying his newfound freedom, as much as one could enjoy anything while living with the Dursleys.  
Extended visits from Dudley’s gang had Harry spending much of his spare time wandering the neighbourhood. Harry spent most of these walks dreaming of the end of summer when he would depart to Stonewall High and, for the first time in his life, be separated from Dudley (who would be attending Uncle Uncle Vernon’s old private school, Smeltings). In fact, Dudley had been trying on his new Smelting knickerbockers (much to the pride and joy of his parents) and smacking his Smeltings stick about when it all began.  
“Get the mail, Dudley.”  
“Make Harry get it.”  
“Get the mail, Harry.”  
“Make Dudley get it.”  
“Poke him with your Smeltings stick, Dudley.”  
This, for Harry, was more than enough incentive to dart towards the front door to carry out his assigned task. There were only three letters, a slow day, which Harry absent-mindedly flipped through. Atop the pile was an uninviting photo of white cliffs on a rainy day, a postcard from Uncle Vernon’s sister Marge who was vacationing in the Isle of Wight. Under it was a boring brown envelope that looked like a bill, and finally a letter addressed to – Harry?  
In all of his near eleven years with the Dursleys, Harry had never once been written to. And now, suddenly, a letter had appeared at the Dursleys doorstep, just as Harry had the night his parents were killed in an automobile accident.

  
_Mr. H. Potter_  
 _The Cupboard under the Stairs_  
 _4 Privet Drive_  
 _Little Whinging_  
 _Surrey_

  
Turning the heavy, yellowish parchment over with trembling hands, Harry spied a coat of arms – featuring a lion, eagle, badger and snake surrounding a large H – inside a purple wax seal. In the other room, Uncle Vernon urged Harry to speed up the process. What followed was nothing short of bizarre.  
Upon discovering Harry’s letter (which Harry admitted he had been silly not to hide), Uncle Vernon’s face went the greyish white of old porridge, as he clumsily called out to Aunt Petunia. Harry’s Aunt had a very similar reaction, although she appeared far closer to fainting than imitating one of Harry’s least favourite breakfast meals.  
Suddenly, both Harry _and_ Dudley were being screamed at to leave the room, much to Harry’s dismay. He protested and declared ownership of the letter, but to no avail; Uncle Vernon had it now.  
Outside, in the hall where they had been exiled, Harry and Dudley eavesdropped on the conversation that followed.  
As Aunt Petunia wondered how “they” could possibly know where Harry slept, Uncle Vernon suggested that “they” were spying on the house, even following them around. He then declared that they would simply ignore the letter, pretend it didn’t exist. Aunt Petunia half-heartedly protested, to which Uncle Vernon swore he would not “have one” in the house.  
“One what?” Dudley whispered dumbly to Harry, as if his cousin had any more information on the matter than he did. Harry ignored him and continued listening, but that was it.  
Harry stormed angrily to the cupboard under the stairs, the exact place the letter had been addressed to. He collapsed onto the bed, curling into a ball of frustration and anger. Why would Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia keep his letter away from him? And why did they talk in code? Harry was intrigued, desperate to discover who “they” were. “They” sounded dangerous, like some sort of secret spy agency that was watching the Dursley’s every move. Could that have been what the ‘H’ stood for? Her Majesty’s Secret Service? Perhaps they wanted to whisk Harry away to a mountain complex somewhere and train him to become the next James Bond...  
Harry’s fantasies of dangerous missions in Switzerland and Italy carried him off into a nap, interrupted only when Uncle Vernon arrived home from work that evening and Harry approached him about the letter, receiving a very, very odd reply.  
“Your aunt and I have been thinking,” he began, as if the words were like vinegar in his mouth, “you’re really getting a bit big for this cupboard. We think it might be nice if you moved into Dudley’s second bedroom.”  
“Why?” said Harry.  
“Don’t ask questions!” snapped his uncle. “Take this stuff upstairs, now.”  
And so, by the end of the night, Harry had moved into what was formerly the room dedicated to the many toys and broken objects that didn’t fit into Dudley’s bedroom, granting Harry more space than he’d ever had in his life. Whatever this letter was, it had thrown Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia into a spin. First they were worried someone was watching the house, and now Harry had been provided with a bedroom of his own? Were they scared that whoever “they” were would be dissatisfied with Harry’s living arrangements? The whole situation grew in mystery with every waking moment.  
As Harry stretched out on the bed, he mused that although yesterday he’d have loved a bedroom of his own, today he’d rather be back in his cupboard with the letter than up here without it.

  
The following morning, at breakfast, the strangeness continued. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia appeared to be treating Harry with more kindness than they had usually allowed. Aunt Petunia’s disgusted gaze had been replaced with the back of her head, her eyes not daring lock with Harry’s. Uncle Vernon nervously read the paper and largely ignored his bacon and eggs, a rare sight from the neckless man.  
When the mail arrived, Uncle Vernon appeared doubly on edge.  
“Go and get the mail please, Dudley.”  
“Make Harry go and get it.”  
“Dudley...”  
“What?”  
“Get the ruddy mail!”  
With an aggravated sigh, Dudley pouted all the way to the front door, where he let out a cry.  
“There’s another one!”  
The process from the day beforehand had repeated almost identically. Harry and Dudley were sent out of the room while Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia frantically discussed what to do. Although Harry suspected that Aunt Petunia did not agree, Uncle Vernon made it clear that they would stay the course and continue ignoring the letters from H. Harry, however, had spied the new letter and noticed one significant change; where yesterday had read ‘The Cupboard under the Stairs’, today it was replaced with ‘The Smallest Bedroom’. Whoever H was, they knew harry had moved, and were almost definitely watching the house.  
In his bedroom, Harry paced around and felt the anger once again building up inside of him. He had to outwit the Dursleys and find a way to get to the morning post before them. Before long, he had his plan.  
The following morning, Harry awoke at six o’clock and quietly got dressed, careful not to make too much noise and wake the Dursleys. Without turning on any lights, he crept downstairs, on his way to the front door to sneak outside and catch the postman before he-  
Harry leapt into the air; he’d trodden on something big and squashy on the doormat – something alive!  
Lights clicked on upstairs and to his horror Harry realized that the big, squashy something had been his uncle's face. Uncle Vernon had been lying at the foot of the front door in a sleeping bag, clearly making sure that Harry didn't do exactly what he'd been trying to do. He shouted at Harry for about half an hour and then told him to go and make a cup of tea. Harry shuffled miserably off into the kitchen and by the time he got back, the mail had arrived, right into Uncle Vernon's lap.  
Harry could see three letters addressed in green ink.  
“I want --" he began, but Uncle Vernon was tearing the letters into pieces before his eyes. Uncle Vernon didn’t go to work that day. He stayed at home and nailed up the mail slot.  
Under no circumstances was he going to let Harry get a hold of the letter he was after.  
What transpired in the days that followed was nothing short of chaotic.  
On Friday, no less than twelve letters arrived for Harry. Unable to force themselves through the mail slot they had been pushed under the door, slotted through the sides, and some were even forced through the small window in the downstairs bathroom.  
On Saturday, twenty-four letters arrived, rolled up and hidden inside two dozen eggs that their very confused milkman had handed Aunt Petunia through the living room window.  
That night, as Harry walked downstairs quietly in the hopes of stealing a slice of fruitcake, he passed the living room to see Uncle Vernon sitting in front of the fireplace, gleefully dumping Harry’s letters.  
Filled with an uncontrollable rage, Harry bolted for the front door and tore it open, storming angrily across the lawn and down Privet Drive.  
Harry’s walks usually took place in the morning, or early afternoon, and never this late in the day. The last traces of the sun were disappearing over the horizon, and the streetlights had come on. What had started as a rage-fuelled walkout had quickly turned into a fear-inspiring walk through the neighbourhood. Harry didn’t know anyone personally who had had a bad experience, but he’d seen the afternoon news enough times to know this was a terrible idea.  
He had nearly completely looped back around to 4 Privet Drive when a voice called out to him.  
“Oi, four eyes, what are ya doin’ out s’late?”  
Harry turned to see four boys, no younger than sixteen, crossing the street to approach him. He was too far away from the Dursley’s house to make a run for it; he had to try and talk his way out.  
So, naturally, he kept his mouth shut.  
“I’m talkin’ t’ya” the ringleader, sporting an oversized Wanderers kit, said menacingly.  
“I...I...I was just going for a walk” Harry managed.  
“Jus’ goin’ for a walk, ey? Not smart, lad. Don’ cha know it’s dangerous out, innit?” he said, seeking responses from the rest of his group. They all nodded drolly.  
‘Where’s ya house, then?” the ringleader asked, feigning concern.  
Desperately, and filled with panic, Harry pointed at the house closest to him, taking much of the joy out of the ringleader’s eyes. Sensing hesitancy from Harry, he challenged him.  
“Go on, then. Go home.”  
Harry had dreaded this. Slowly, he turned towards the unfamiliar house and stumbled up the driveway clumsily. When it came time to turn towards the front door, Harry turned on his heels and mustered all the energy he could into bolting in the direction of 4 Privet Drive.  
“He’s makin’ a break for it. Nab ‘im!” he heard the ringleader shout.  
Running as fast as he could, Harry turned his neck to see the wolf on the ringleader’s shirt get closer and closer.  
“I gotcha now, ya little prick” the ringleader shouted, his arms wrapping around Harry and lifting him into the air.  
Harry’s shoulder burned as he was thrown hard onto the grass lawn of the nearest house and kicked sharply in the ribs, making him curl up into a ball and wheeze.  
“ _That_ was for lyin’!” the ringleader announced, putting a hand on Harry’s shoulder and rolling him onto his back. “And _this_ is because I don’t like ya.”  
Harry opened his eyes fast enough to see the fast fly towards his face, sending his jaw rollicking sidewards and making it feel tremendously out of place.  
As his goons laughed, the ringleader gave Harry one final kick – this time to the spine – before walking away, satisfied with the beating he’d dished to this ten year old.  
After a few minutes of heavy breathing, and spitting out the blood that trickled from his cut lip, Harry weakly got to his knees, and then to his feet. Slowly, painfully, he trudged home to Number 4, Privet Drive.

  
When he opened the door, he saw that all of the lights were off and the Dursleys had gone to bed. Trying to keep as quiet as possible, Harry closed the door and moved up the staircase, resisting the urge to groan every time one of his ribs ached.  
He had only been in his bedroom for a handful of nights, but it was already providing him with a much better sleep than he had ever received in the cupboard under the stairs. Tonight, Harry was particularly grateful for the room change, as he shuddered at the thought of being cramped in the cupboard the way he was feeling.  
As he took off his dirty clothes and shifted into his pyjamas, crawling into bed, Harry thought back on the night and how helpless he was. Not just with the beating he’d received, but with everything. Those letters were addressed to him, they belonged to him, and yet he was seemingly the only one who didn’t know what it all meant. And these people that were watching them, clearly they had given up and abandoned their pursuit of Harry, otherwise they would’ve intervened when Harry was attacked in the neighbourhood.  
Harry felt a hot tear run down his face as he clenched his fists and curled into a ball. He felt like such a weak, defenceless, stupid child, with a life that would never go anywhere. Surely it all had to stop somewhere, he wouldn’t be subjected to this forever. Surely...  
He kept his fists clenched as he drifted off into sleep with a mixture of anger and sorrow plaguing his mind, as Surrey prepared for a night more remarkable than the time a half-giant flew across the sky on a motorbike, a little baby wrapped up in his arms, and landed on Privet Drive.


	2. Storm Warning

_The room was dark and empty, as far as Harry could tell. He could see very little aside from the wall, which showed the shadow of a woman growing larger as she backed up towards Harry._   
_“Please, no” she pleaded. “Leave him alone.”_   
_“Stand aside” a snake-like voice hissed, sending shivers throughout Harry’s body._   
_“Take me, please, just leave him alone” the woman’s voice wept._   
_“Fool!” the snake-like voice yelled, before muttering words that Harry had never heard before._   
_The room was filled with a terrifying green-light, as Harry’s ears where attacked with the piercing scream of the woman._   
_As Harry’s vision turned to black, the scream grew fainter and fainter, and Harry’s heartbeat slowly returned to normal._

  
When Harry woke, drenched in sweat, it was late in the morning, far later than Harry would usually wake up. But given how early he had risen the day before, and the events that had transpired that night, he forgave himself. To put the horrible dream out of his mind, Harry thought of the letters and the secrets they may hold. Excitedly, he rushed downstairs to see if H had continued trying to contact him.  
At the sight of the Sunday Morning News on the television, Harry’s heart sunk to his stomach at the realisation that, of course, it was Sunday, and there’s no post on Sundays.  
He half expected to see Uncle Vernon’s smug face, chomping down on a cookie and preparing for a mail-free day, but there was no noise aside from the television.  
Harry peered into the living room and spied Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia with their eyes glued to the screen.  
“Is there any breakfast leftover?” Harry asked.  
He received no response from either of his guardians, who appeared petrified as they watched the television.  
“Breakfast. Are there any leftovers?” Harry repeated, growing impatient.  
“...in the pantry” Uncle Vernon mumbled, not taking his eyes off the screen.  
“What?”  
“Cereal in the bloody pantry, boy!” he half-shouted, glaring at Harry to shut up.  
Harry finally turned his attention to the television and away from his rumbling stomach.  
A handsome young man stood with the microphone in his hands, and what appeared to be a junkyard behind him.  
“If you’re just joining us, we are live with breaking news from Surrey, where a freak storm has rocked the community overnight.”  
It was then that Harry realised that what he had assumed to be a junkyard was, in fact, a neighbourhood.  
“What on earth...” Harry whispered to himself.  
The young reporter continued. “Details thus far are vague, but we _can_ confirm that, as of right now, twelve have been confirmed dead, with an estimated fifty in hospital with serious injuries. The storm came at approximately 1am, and swept through the Surrey town of Little Whinging. Meteorologists can offer no information at this time, only to say that the storm defies all logic, with one even going so far as to say it was ‘out of this world’. Ambulances at the scene described it as akin to a cyclone, raising even further questions as to how such an anomaly could occur so far inland. Later on the show, we’ll be speaking with global warming experts to determine the possible cause of this-”  
Suddenly, the television switched off and Harry quickly stepped out of the room to avoid being seen.  
“You don’t think it was...” Aunt Petunia began.  
“No, no, of course not” Uncle Vernon reassured her. “Not a chance.”  
Harry walked down the hall and saw Dudley standing in the open doorway, staring outside.  
“Dudley...what are you doing?”  
“Watching the telly” he replied, as if there were nothing curious about such an answer.  
“Watching the...what?”  
He beckoned for Harry to come over, too absorbed in what he could see to remember his all-consuming hatred of Harry.  
“Dudley, I really don’t understand what you could possibly-”  
Harry stopped speaking as soon as he stepped outside and saw the young reporter standing across the street, a small crowd of the Dursley’s neighbours gathered around the news van with the junkyard behind, where Harry’s neighbourhood had once stood.  
Just the night before, it had served as the track for Harry’s late-night-lap, and today it was breaking news.  
“The storm destroyed Privet Drive?” Harry asked, not really expecting a reply.  
“Only half of it” Dudley said dumbly, his jaw resting against the ground and he stared open-mouthed at the news van and reporter. Clearly, the wonders of television were more important than the tragedy that had struck their quiet little neighbourhood.  
When Harry finally arrived in the kitchen, he didn’t feel much in the mood for eating, and instead took a seat at the dining table and attempted to absorb the news.  
A cyclone in Little Whinging, and yet Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia seemed worried about something else. Things at Number Four, Privet Drive had become very strange in the past week. Very strange indeed.

  
Despite it being Sunday, three letters arrived in the middle of afternoon and were routinely disposed of by Uncle Vernon, who seemed to have other things on his mind. It was like that for the next week, as the letters arrived in groups of three or five each day. Whoever H was, they had not given up their efforts, but they had certainly slowed since the storm.  
As the week progressed, there were also no new developments regarding the storm. Countless studies were underway, and results wouldn’t be yielded for weeks, maybe even months, but all they could say for sure was that they had nothing they could say for sure. The clearer it became that modern science had no explanation, the worse Aunt Petunia’s condition came to be.  
Marred by stress and anxiety, she spent far more time in the bedroom napping than she did in the kitchen cooking, much to Dudley’s dismay. Harry, who often cooked for himself anyway, was not troubled by the new household duties, but did find himself concerned for Aunt Petunia. She appeared genuinely ill with all that had happened.  
One night, after Uncle Vernon had finished watching the late night news and yet another clueless report on ‘Cyclone Surrey’, Harry sat at the top of the stairs and listened in on a conversation he had with Aunt Petunia, who was making a rare appearance in the household.  
“Vernon, it can’t be ignored any longer.”  
“I know” he replied dryly, a rare concession of defeat from Uncle Vernon.  
“Maybe we should let him go, Vernon” Aunt Petunia suggested.  
“Let him go? To that place? And become...one of _them_? Not a chance in hell, Petunia. Not one ruddy snowball’s chance in hell that I’ll have one of his kind under my roof.”  
_One of my kind?_ Harry thought to himself, suddenly feeling very alien in his own body. What does that mean?  
“I know what these people are capable of, Vernon, far better than you. Look what they did to my family.”  
_Petunia’s family? But aside from my mother, the Evans family is perfectly fine..._  
“I know Petunia, goddamn, how could I forget a thing like that? We don’t have many choices, but I can say for damn sure that as long as he’s under my roof, that boy is not going to Hogwarts!”  
And suddenly, H had a name and Harry’s heart skipped a beat. _Hogwarts!_  
_What’s Hogwarts?_  
“That first storm was just a warning, Vernon. Maybe the next one doesn’t miss our house. Think about our boy, think about my Ickle Duddykins!”  
“Ickle Duddyk- Dudley isn’t in any danger. You know I’d never let anything happen to him.”  
Harry contemplated whether Uncle Vernon would be any more useful in defending Dudley from a storm than, say a great prune.  
“We’ll continue ignoring the letters,” Uncle Vernon continued, “and if anything strange or funny happens, we’ll pack our bags and take off. I know somewhere we can hide, somewhere they’ll _never_ find us.”  
With that, the conversation was over and Harry could feel the dread rising in his stomach; somewhere they’d never find him? He hated the sound of that.  
Eavesdropping completed, Harry tiptoed back to his room and slid under the covers of his bed. Hogwarts. Finally, he knew what H stood for, but he still didn’t know what it was.  
Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had talked about Cyclone Surrey as if it were something that was controlled, as if someone was capable of creating it.  
And again, his guardians had spoken of his parents, and Harry himself, as if he were different, as if he were some sort of alien. The meteorologists had said the storm was out of this world; perhaps Harry was too.  
He almost laughed and he rolled over to get some sleep, knowing it were ridiculous to believe that maybe he were an alien. The only thing odd about Harry was his scar, and that his hair refused to be cut and just weeks earlier he had made the glass to a snake enclosure disappear. But that was more like magic, and that isn’t the work of aliens; it’s the work of a wizard. And Harry wasn’t silly enough to believe in witches and wizards.  
As he drifted off to sleep, Harry’s final thought that was there had to be a connection between his parents, Hogwarts, and the freak storm that had torn through Little Whinging. Something connected them all, but what?


	3. Ministers and Muggles

Professor Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, found himself once again disheartened to discover that the school’s endless attempts to contact Mr. Harry Potter of Number Four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey were being endlessly blocked.  
Looking through the Book of Student Registrations, Dumbledore could see that several of the students had received their letters and read them. Harry, he was sure, was being ‘protected’ from his letter, as the Dursleys would view it. He wondered, not for the first time, if it had been wise to leave Harry in the care of such nasty muggles.  
“Dumbledore – you can’t” McGonagall had said eleven years earlier, when they left Harry on the doorstep of Number Four, Privet Drive. “I’ve been watching them all day. You couldn’t find two people who are less like us. And they’ve got this son – I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Harry Potter come and live here?!”  
Dumbledore, though understanding of it, had dismissed McGonagall’s concerns. Eleven years on, he found himself on the opposite side of the argument.  
Dumbledore had initially planned on increasing their efforts, pushing the Dursleys to the brink, when a letter had arrived from the Ministry of Magic.

  
_Dearest Albus,_  
 _There has been an incident with magic in the English county of Surrey, and we need to temporarily reduce wizarding presence in the area. I would like to formally request that you reduce any Hogwarts correspondence with current and future students to a bare minimum._

_Regards, Cornelius Fudge_   
_Minister for Magic_

  
Dumbledore had chuckled at Fudge’s need to clarify who he was every time he wrote his name. A formality, of course, but one that implied that one may forget he was the Minister. In Fudge’s case, this may not be too far from reality.  
That had been a week ago, and since then Dumbledore had not risked more than five letters to the Dursleys, and was eagerly awaiting word from Fudge that he could hit Vernon and Petunia Dursley with everything he had. It was absolutely essential that on September 1st, Harry Potter was at Platform 9 ¾ with his wand, robes, books and animal of choice.  
Regarding the storm, Dumbledore had paid very little interest. Events like this happened quite frequently in the wizarding world; with residents like Dedalus Diggle it was bound to happen. The only difference was that this time the wizard had let muggles see their mistake. It was fortunate that it appeared as a storm of sorts, otherwise the muggles might have found it even more suspicious than they already did.  
With a sigh, Dumbledore began the walk back to his office, not a particularly long one, a very nicely distanced walk. Dumbledore regarded the walks from his office to the areas of Hogwarts he most frequented as particularly convenient; close enough that one’s legs did not tire, but long enough that one may ponder life’s many troubles. Today, in particular, he questioned whether Professor Sprout’s bone-crushing plant was an adequate defence, given the simple solution to escape its deadly grasp.  
Arriving at his office, he found what he had initially perceived to be a pleasant surprise; the Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge.  
“Dumbledore, where have you been?” Fudge explained with his usual sense of urgency. Dumbledore attempted to visualise Fudge without the trademark bead of sweat he always appeared to have in his presence, but found he didn’t have a broad enough imagination for it.  
“Cornelius” he welcomed, stepping past Fudge and into his office, with Fudge close behind. “Has the time come to do away with restrictions on letters to Surrey?”  
Fudge shook his head rapidly, much to Dumbledore’s disappointment, paying little mind to that particular matter.  
“Albus, I need your advice.”  
_That goes without saying_ , Dumbledore thought to himself.  
“Speak your mind, Cornelius.”  
Gratefully accepting the invitation, Cornelius took a seat. Fawkes landed gracefully on a nearby table, observing the situation with great interest. Fudge eyed the phoenix wearily as he began.  
“This storm in Surrey - the Surrey Cyclone, as the muggles call it – is causing me quite some grief. The world has gone into quite a spin.”  
“I can’t imagine why,” Dumbledore said with interest. “I was under the impression that it was merely a mishap.”  
“As was I, but my Aurors have found nothing. No traces of any sort of spells, no wizards in the area, nothing. As far as they can tell, it really was a storm.”  
“Could it have been?” Dumbledore asked, already knowing the question.  
“Of course not! This is something quite different, Albus, something very concerning.”  
“And what would that be, Cornelius?”  
“ _Dark magic_ , Albus.”  
Dumbledore remained silent for a moment, allowing Fudge’s last comment to taint the atmosphere of the room. Outside, it appeared as if the sun had gone behind a cloud.  
“Are you sure of this?”  
“I have Aurors at the scene now. They’ve put up Anti-Muggle charms, so they’ve had plenty of freedom to investigate. They say there’s no other explanation. It’s dark magic. _Powerful_ dark magic.”  
Dumbledore nodded with interest. “I must admit, I had not paid particular attention to the incident. Was anyone hurt?”  
“Hurt?” Fudge asked incredulously. “Albus, twelve muggles are dead! And there’s another forty-eight in hospital.”  
Dumbledore felt a part of him freeze. Twelve muggles dead, and another forty-eight injured? This was serious dark magic, indeed.  
“We don’t know of any witches or wizards in the area, so we’re looking for any potential wizards instead. We need your permission before accessing the Hogwarts records. I figured I should come down here and ask myself.”  
“That won’t be necessary, Cornelius. I remember all of our potential wizards. Just the Surrey area?”  
“Well, Little Whinging to be precise.”  
This time, most of his body froze as a cold sensation spread throughout the lower half of his body.  
“Little Whinging?” he asked.  
“Yes” Fudge clarified.  
Slowly, Dumbledore shook his head, knowing full well where Number Four, Privet Drive rested.  
“You’re absolutely sure? You don’t want to check the records again?”  
“No, Cornelius. I’m quite certain of it.”  
Disappointed, Fudge nodded his head in acceptance.  
“I suppose we’ll just keep looking and hope we find something. If not, hopefully there won’t be another incident and we can move on.”  
With great sadness, Dumbledore recalled reading the same comments from Eugenia Jenkins in the _Daily Prophet_ when Voldemort’s attacks had first begun, and forced himself to ignore the similarities.  
“Yes, let’s hope” he finally said.  
With that, Fudge rose from his seat, just as anxious as when he’d plumped down on it. The beads of sweat had disappeared, only to be replaced by several more.  
“I’m sure it will all blow over, Cornelius” Dumbledore said in a half-hearted attempt to comfort. Fudge mumbled something of an agreement back as he approached the fireplace.  
“There is always the possibility,” Dumbledore began, “that Voldemort has resurfaced.”  
At the mention of the name, Dumbledore saw Fudge shiver with his entire body.  
“No, no, that’s not it” Fudge replied emphatically, seemingly convincing himself rather than Dumbledore. “He is gone, he died that night in Godric’s Hollow. We won’t be dealing with him ever again.”  
“Let us hope not” Dumbledore finished, as Fudge took a handful of Floo Powder and returned to the Ministry.  
As soon as he was gone, Dumbledore returned to his desk and took a much needed seat. This storm, clearly dark magic by the sounds of things, swept through Little Whinging. Dumbledore immediately dismissed the possibility of a coincidence, the pit in his stomach too deep to ignore. Harry Potter was in danger, and something needed to be done about it.  
It wasn’t serious enough yet to take more drastic measures, so for now Dumbledore settled on a quick walk to Hagrid’s Hut. There was much they needed to discuss.


	4. The Men in the Ruins

Harry awoke the following morning filled with a sense of uncertainty. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia’s conversation the night beforehand had provided him valuable information, but he had no idea what to do with it. He would need to confront them at some point, but the timing needed to be perfect. This, Harry concluded, would be tricky.  
The day passed relatively uneventfully. Dudley’s usual cheerfulness in antagonising Harry had been soured by the atmosphere of the house, as Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia glided about absent-mindedly and ghost-like. After nearly eleven years of barely getting by with the Dursleys, Harry had more life than anyone in the house.  
That reminded him that his eleventh birthday was fast approaching; the day after tomorrow, he would have yet another birthday ignored by his guardians and insufferable cousin. To take his mind off of the inevitable disappointment, Harry decided that a brisk afternoon walk was in order.  
He stepped out of the house and smiled as he took the air in, the joy being ripped from his face when he looked across the street and, once again, took in the damage of the storm. Harry walked down the footpath and began his circuit around the neighbourhood, or what was left of it.  
The houses had been completely demolished. Harry initially compared it to properties he’d see get bulldozed on the television, or dismantled roughly with a wrecking ball. But surveying the damage to Little Whinging, Harry admitted that even what he’d seen on the television didn’t come close to this. The destruction looked far from man-made, it looked almost...animalistic.  
There was a savagery to it that Harry couldn’t quite pinpoint. It was as if the storm had taken the form of a giant bear that mauled the houses as if they were tiny foxes threatening its cubs. The damage looked less like the product of nature, and more like the result of a temper tantrum, like God had been filled with anger and taken it out on Little Whinging.  
As Harry walked, he wondered what Hogwarts could have been. A government institution? A school? A company his parents had worked for? Perhaps they owed a debt to his parents, and had recently discovered the conditions Harry had been living in. Now they were rushing to his aid, refusing to let the son of James and Lily Potter live with Vernon and Petunia Dursley.  
Harry kicked a rock glumly, knowing he was being silly. He knew he needed to quit fantasising about it all, as the reality was going to be painfully mundane in contrast to what his young mind could conjure up. But he couldn’t let go of the hope that once, just once, in his life he would have some good fortune and find a way to escape the Dursleys for good.  
By now, he was halfway through his usual walking circuit, and the sun was setting far quicker than Harry was anticipating. He needed to get a move on if he wanted to avoid any more incidents, although the streets had been far less populated since Cyclone Surrey visited.  
He nearly tripped as he sped up, looking down to see a picket fence encroaching onto the edge of the road. Harry recognised it as being from the home of the Burns family, who had mostly been hospitalised, their elder daughter Montana being spared in Paris on a school trip. The only thing was, the Burns house had been on the other side of the neighbourhood, across from the Dursleys, nearly three-hundred metres in the opposite direction.  
_This was one hell of a storm._  
That was when the voices started.  
“...unlike anything I’ve seen before.”  
“How about you, Sprewett? You’re the History geek, you ever read of something like this?”  
“I mean, of course, all sorts of things. But nothing that makes sense in this day and age, especially not in Surrey.”  
The voices were coming from further within the wreckage. Harry, too scared to move further in, crouched down and quickly crab-walked to a car several metres further down the road. Glancing over the bonnet, he couldn’t believe his eyes.  
Looking through what remained of a sideway and through to an overturned backyard, Harry saw what he believed to be three men standing around a spat-and-chewed-out trampoline. Now, that isn’t particularly odd, but there were two things that really caught Harry’s attention.  
Firstly, the men were dressed funny. And not the kind of funny he had ever seen before. Uncle Vernon often complained about the men who dressed up in makeup and lipstick, and the woman who dressed in nearly nothing, but this was different. The man on the left wore a fancy top hat, with a golden overcoat hiding a lilac vest and a purple tie. On the right, a face hid behind a grand, rather impressive mistake that came down to the owner’s chest, which sported a regal black coat buttoned up in response to the Surrey night. There were times, Uncle Vernon once said, that Little Whinging forgot it was summer.  
The second thing that caught Harry’s attention was the man in the middle. Not his clothing, or his facial hair. In fact, Harry hadn’t registered either of those things on him (and if he had, he’d have noticed that it was, in fact, a woman). No, what caught Harry’s attention was the stick she held over the trampoline.  
This wasn’t any ordinary stick, however. The stick was, you see, _glowing_.  
Curious, Harry stood up from the car and inched closer, stopping at the edge of the footpath. He was clearly visible, but far too caught up in what he was seeing to notice. _A glowing stick!_  
“There’s only so many things that could’ve caused this amount of damage. A Hippogriff?”  
The man on the left shook his head. “Not without being seen by one of the muggles.”  
_Muggles?_  
“A Thunderbird then? I know it’s just as visible as a Hippogriff, but it could’ve stayed higher up and done all of this through the storm. They’re the storm ones, aren’t they?”  
The History geek, Sprewett, nodded. “They are, but there hasn’t been a Thunderbird this far south in centuries. If there was one around here, we’d know about it.”  
“You’d _hope_ we’d know about it” the woman said in a mocking tone.  
Suddenly, the man on the left noticed Harry watching them. Harry froze.  
“There’s someone watching us. A muggle, I think.”  
“Didn’t you put the Anti-Muggle Charm up?”  
“Of course I did! What do you think I am, an idiot?”  
“Then what is he staring at?!”  
Realising that these people didn’t think Harry could see him, he began looking at other areas, as if surveying the destruction.  
_They know, they know. How the hell couldn’t they? They’re in the open, they know I can see them!_  
“See, I put the charm up. He’s just looking at the wreckage.”  
“I could’ve sworn he was looking straight at me...” the man on the left said eerily.  
There was an awkward silence, broken cheerfully by the woman.  
“Come on, then. We’ve found all we’re going to find, best head off to the Leaky Cauldron for a cheeky drink before we meet with Fudge.”  
“Aye aye!” Sprewett declared gleefully.  
The woman pointed her glowing stick behind her and said “ _Accio_ , notebook”, and Harry watched in awe out of the corner of his eye as a pen and paper went flying straight into her hands. It was just like he’d seen on the television when Uncle Vernon was watching one of his favourite movies, where the people fought each other with laser-swords and the hero could make objects levitate towards him.  
“Fun fact,” Sprewett began loudly as they began gathering their possessions. “The Leaky Cauldron appears to muggles as a broken-down old shop on Charing Cross Road. They have no idea that it’s actually a wizarding pub! Priceless.”  
_Wizarding pub? Do these people think they are wizards?_  
The three of them shared a laugh, just as a hand came down forcefully on Harry’s shoulder and filled his entire body with fear. He was whipped around sharply, and found himself eye-to-eye with a shining emblem; it read ‘Surrey County Police’.  
“What’re you doin’ ‘round ‘ere?”  
“There are people in the ruins.”  
“Huh?”  
Harry, relieved at the presence of the authorities, turned and pointed directly at the three people in the backyard. “There, they’ve been skulking around for ages.”  
The police officer stared blankly into the ruins, before alternating between that and Harry’s expectant face.  
“Aren’t you going to arrest them?”  
“Arrest who? There’s no one there?”  
Harry turned to make sure they were still there. They were.  
“The people! What’s wrong, can’t you see that far?”  
It was meant as a genuine question, but the officer took it as cheek from a young troublemaker.  
“Listen ‘ere, lad. I’m in no mood for games. What’s ya name and where do ya live?”  
Harry turned and looked into the ruins once again, and saw that he gotten the attention of the three strange people.  
“I _told_ you he could see us!” the man on the left said.  
“We need to do something about this” the woman said, gazing at Harry with interest. “Shall we take him and wipe the muggle’s memory?”  
“There’s too many houses nearby that weren’t wiped away by the storm, we can’t risk being seen.”  
“It’s either this or a cell for the night” the police officer threatened after Harry hadn’t replied.  
Knowing the strange trio would be listening in for Harry’s details, he did the first thing he thought to do.  
“My, er, my name is Dudley Dursley. I live at Number Four, Privet Drive.”  
“Privet Drive? That ain’t too far from here. I’ll drive you over, and I’ll have to have a stern chat with your parents.”  
“They’re not my parents” Harry grumbled, too low for the officer to hear, as he got in the back of the police car he hadn’t heard pull up.  
As they drove away, he watched the trio walk onto the street behind them and stare as the police car turned a corner and disappeared from site.

The Dursleys were far from impressed with Harry’s late-night escapades.  
“Deeply sorry, officer. Our nephew he’s deeply disturbed. We usually don’t let him go out for walks at night, he must’ve slipped out the back door.”  
“Well, we can’t learn from our mistakes unless we make them” the officer said, flashing was Harry could only assume was his best attempt at a charming smile.  
“Thank you” Uncle Vernon said with finality, and the officer took the hint. He was away, and all attention returned to Harry.  
“WHAT IN THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING, BOY?!”  
“I didn’t do anything!” Harry protested earnestly. “There were people in the ruins, but he couldn’t see them! I swear!”  
“And why couldn’t he see them hmm?” Aunt Petunia chimed in, immediately returning to her tight-lipped scowl as soon as the final syllable had been uttered.  
“I don’t know, but one of them had this stick, and it was glowing. And they were calling people muggles, and they...they thought they were wizards. I think they did something so that normal people couldn’t see them, but I could, I don’t know why. It was strange, it was...it was like magic.”  
The final word sent Uncle Vernon over the edge. His large, beefy face when a deep red, as Harry momentarily had serious concerns for his Uncle’s health.  
“There is NO such thing as _MAGIC!_ ” he roared, before pointing his wafer-like finger at the stairs. “Into your room, now!”  
“But-“  
“NOW, BOY, BEFORE I KICK YOU BACK INTO THE CUPBOARD.”  
The threat of losing his new room was too much to bear, and so Harry slumped his shoulders and walked, defeated, to the stairs.  
“And I don’t want to hear that M word ever again!” Uncle Vernon yelled after him as he closed the door to his bedroom and collapsed onto his bed.  
This, more than any other night in recent memory, had been the hardest to stomach. Harry could not deny what he had seen; although it sounded ridiculous that these people believed they were doing magic, she d _id_ have light coming from her stick (was it a wand?), and she _did_ make the notebook fly towards her. Not to mention, the Anti-Muggle Charm he had heard them discuss clearly worked on the police officer, as he definitely could not see what Harry was seeing.  
While most nights he slowly drifted off into sleep, this one was sleepless. His gut told him that the people in the ruins were somehow related to all he had discovered lately. Hogwarts, the storm, his parents, the wizards. It all came together somehow.  
Harry thought back to the way Uncle Vernon had referred to Harry and his parents as “their kind”, and the way Uncle Vernon had freaked out the moment he heard Harry utter the word ‘magic’.  
_There’s no such thing as magic._  
 _Is there?_  
As sleep slowly drew closer and closer, and Harry’s thoughts blurred more and more, two things stood out to him.  
One; the people in the ruins didn’t know who he was, but they knew where he lived. If they wanted to find him, they knew that Number Four, Privet Drive was the place to search.  
Two; Harry needed to confront Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia about what he knew, and it needed to happen sooner rather than later.  
Something told Harry that time was running out, and fast.


	5. Pushing the Envelope

_Harry could feel himself sweating and flashes of green prepared themselves, but was caught off guard by the sudden spray of white that filled his eyes. It was a light of some sort – not dissimilar to the one the woman had in the ruins – and it was blinding him._   
_“Harry” a soothing voice whispered weakly. Harry tried to speak, but he couldn’t. In this world, he had no control._   
_“Run!” the voice commanded sharply._

  
Harry’s eyes flew open and his body shot upwards, sending heavy beads of sweat flying onto the bed in front of him. His immediate thought was to unbutton his pyjama shirt, as it had been drenched, but he then realised he was freezing; the sweat was cold.  
Shaking, he slowly slid out of bed and stood in the middle of his room, unsure of what to do. He shuffled to the window and peered out into the street, fully aware of how paranoid he was being. But it felt justified; the voice in his dream had struck terror deep within him.  
_Run? From who?_  
His throat was dry. Water was the next course of action.  
Harry carefully opened the door to his bedroom and stepped out onto the landing, preparing to fumble his way through the dark. He was surprised, however, to see a light coming from downstairs that made the second floor visible enough to navigate easily.  
As he drifted towards the bathroom, he paused at the top of the stairs as he heard the unmistakable voices of his legal guardians.  
“We really do need to get some sleep, Petunia. I don’t know how many times we can talk about the same thing , it just isn’t healthy.”  
“Wizards, Vernon! He saw wizards, here, in Little Whinging! What’s more, in our own street!”  
“I know!” Vernon spat sharply, making Harry cringe. “I am fully aware of the situation, Petunia! You don’t need to remind that there’s a few of them out and about nearby.”  
Harry was awestruck. He had heard them say it; wizards. Casually, as if they were a fact of life.  
“They’re going to take him from us, regardless of what we want. We should just hand him over.”  
_Hand me over? Like a criminal?_  
Harry’s initial intrigue with these people that wanted him had turned to fear. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were speaking of them as if they were police, and Harry were a criminal they were harbouring from justice.  
“Over my dead body” Uncle Vernon shot back. “I’ll call my friend tomorrow and organise accommodation. We’ll leave, go somewhere they can’t find us. September 1st, that’s as long as we have to hold off. As soon as that day comes around, they’ll know he isn’t attending and they’ll give up.”  
“I don’t know, Vernon. These people are relentless.”  
“Let it go, woman. You need sleep, you’ll be reasonable in the morning.”  
He had heard enough. The time was now. Harry began making his way down the stairs, glancing at the clock as he moved past.

  
It was ten-past-eleven at night. In fifty minutes, Harry Potter would be eleven.

  
“We need to talk,” he said authoritatively, announcing his presence in the room.  
Aunt Petunia’s face went ghostly pale, while Uncle Vernon cartoonishly bolted up and out of his seat.  
“What are you doing out of bed at this time, boy?!”  
“I want answers,” Harry demanded. “I know what I saw tonight, and you do too.”  
Aunt Petunia shut her eyes tight and aimed her head skyward, as if sending off a silent prayer; ‘please, tell me this is a dream’.  
“There’s nothing to tell you. Whatever you heard, that warped head of yours twisted it out of proportion, now shove off. You should be asleep.”  
“What’s Hogwarts?”  
Uncle Vernon shot a look to Aunt Petunia that didn’t take much deciphering; ‘how the hell does he know that name?’  
“Did you get one of the letters?” Uncle Vernon asked fearfully. Harry shook his head.  
“I overheard you the other night, just as I did then. That’s how I know it has something to do with wizards, and so do my parents.”  
“Freaks,” Aunt Petunia whispered a little too loud in the corner of the room.  
“She was your sister!” Harry spat at her, anger welling up in his stomach.  
“You do _not_ talk about your Aunt like that!” Uncle Vernon ordered, waving a finger at Harry. “You will show _respect_ for all that she has done for you, taking you in after your foolish parents went and got blown up-”  
“Blown up?!” Harry asked incredulously. “You said they were in a car crash!”  
In the corner of the room, Aunt Petunia let out a laugh. Not a laugh one lets out when they hear something humorous. No, it was the sort of laugh one delivers when stuck in a predicament they cannot work out. A hopeless laugh, a desperate laugh.  
“A car crash? No, God no. A car crash didn’t kill my sister. _He_ did,” she said, helplessness being replaced by fear for a split-second. Harry noted that it was the first time Lily Potter had even been referred to as Aunt Petunia’s sister, rather than Harry Potter’s mother.  
“ _He_ did? Who?” Harry demanded, trying desperately to process all the information coming his way.  
“One of the students at that loony school they went to,” Uncle Vernon answered, forgetting who he was talking to. “The very school that you shall never set foot in!”  
“Hogwarts,” Harry said with sudden realisation. “Hogwarts is a school, a school for wizards.”  
“And witches,” Aunt Petunia added.  
“Is that what my parents were, then? A witch and a wizard? What does that make me?”  
“An orphan!” Uncle Vernon yelled. “A filthy, ungrateful, snot-nosed little orphan who had better get back in his bloody cupboard before I kick him there!”  
“The cupboard? But you gave me a bedroom!” Harry yelled that.  
“A mistake,” Uncle Vernon levelled. “One that will be rectified tomorrow. Now go, boy. Go back where you belong.”  
Harry stood his ground. He had received so many answers, so many pieces of the puzzle falling into place. He couldn’t just turn and walk away now.  
In the corner of the room, Aunt Petunia had turned her back to Harry, not baring to look at him.  
“She was your sister,” Harry reminded her. She turned and met his eyes.  
“Please,” he whispered.  
The look in her eyes was unmistakeable, even though Harry had never seen it before. It was the kind of look you can identify in anyone’s eyes, anywhere in the world. A look of regret.  
Suddenly, Uncle Vernon’s beefy hand had gripped Harry’s matchstick arm and began dragging him into the hallway, much to Harry’s protest. Uncle Vernon opened the door to the cupboard, manhandling Harry into it and shutting it behind him.  
“You stay in there until the morning,” Uncle Vernon ordered, before adding a threat. “And if I hear so much as the creak of a floorboard, you can say goodbye to breakfast.”  
With that, he walked away and had an argument with Aunt Petunia quiet enough that Harry couldn’t eavesdrop.  
And then, it was time for bed.

  
It was eleven-thirty. In half an hour, Harry Potter would be eleven years old.

  
There was nothing to sleep on in the cupboard, as it had been cleared following Harry’s abandonment of it. Instead, he sat down in the corner and rested against the wall, attempting to process all that had happened that night. James Potter was a wizard. Lily Potter was a witch. They hadn’t been killed in a car crash, they had been murdered by another wizard, one that had gone to Hogwarts too. Meanwhile, Hogwarts had been revealed as a school for witches and wizards. Harry wasn’t a criminal, nor was he a freak.  
Harry Potter was a wizard, and on September 1st he was due to start his education at Hogwarts...Academy for Witches and Wizards? Hogwarts College of Witchcraft and Wizarding?  
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a door opening. However, Harry knew exactly what door it was; the front door. Either one of the Dursleys were leaving, or someone else was coming in.  
Scrambling to the door of the cupboard, Harry pressed his ear to it and listened.  
“ _Lumos_ ” a feminine voice said. From underneath the door, Harry saw a light suddenly emerge.  
“So this is the house, huh?” the unmistakable voice of Sprewett came. “Photos don’t even move, I don’t know how these muggles get by.”  
Harry was unsure of how to respond to this. The two wizards and the witch he had seen in the ruins had just broken into the Dursley’s house, no doubt to find Harry. Although Harry was desperate to find Hogwarts, something in his gut told him that these people weren’t from Hogwarts. The way they had talked as they inspected the ruins had made it seem like they were investigating, as if they were some sort of wizard detectives.  
“I’ll take upstairs,” the woman said. “Make sure you wipe their memories if they see you. Sprewett, did you make sure no noise escapes the house?”  
“I did. If the muggles wake up and start screaming, the neighbours won’t hear a thing.  
Harry’s stomach dropped as he realised these wizards were anticipating screaming.  
Several minutes later, that was exactly what happened.  
“WHAT IN THE RUDDY HELL ARE YOU DOING IN MY HOUSE?” Uncle Vernon roared, as Aunt Petunia’s scream echoed through the house. There were several moments of silence, before “NO, I WILL NOT CALM DOWN. WHAT DO YOU WANT WITH MY BOY?”  
Harry’s body went cold all over as he remembered that he had given the police officer Dudley’s name, and that these wizards were no doubt seeking out Dudley Dursley.  
The commotion upstairs continued, the Dursleys refusing to give up their son, before Sprewett yelled that he had found another boy.  
“Mummy? Daddy? Help!”  
“Leave our Dudley alone?”  
“Dudley?” Harry heard Sprewett say, “This isn’t Dudley.”  
“You think I don’t know my own bloody boy, you loony?!” Uncle Vernon yelled.  
“Does anyone else live here?” the other man asked with authority.  
A moment of silence followed, before Uncle Vernon firmly said “No”.  
“Go look at the pictures downstairs” the man ordered, and footsteps subsequently came down the stairs as the bottom of the door was lit up once again. They were inspecting the photos on the walls for any sign of Harry. As they searched, Harry wracked his mind for any photo of him that the Dursleys may have lying around, and quickly came to the conclusion that they had none. He was safe, for now, and the wizard returned upstairs and reported as such.  
“He tricked us!” the witch exclaimed. “That damn kid tricked us! Wipe their memories; we’re getting out of here.”  
The commotion continued, as the Dursleys were silenced one by one. This was followed by a pitter-patter of footsteps down the stairs, as the two wizards and the witch complained about Harry’s deception all the way to the front door, which they exited quietly.  
Alone, terrified and shaking, Harry decided it would be best to wait in the cupboard for ten or so minutes before he emerged, in case they came back. No noises came from upstairs, much to the detriment of Harry’s nerves. When it was clear they wouldn’t, he opened the door and quietly stepped out.

  
It was eleven forty-five. In fifteen minutes, Harry Potter would be eleven years old.

  
Harry rushed upstairs, taking them two at a time, and burst into Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia’s room to find them lying motionless on the bed, with their eyes closed.  
_They killed them!_  
Harry rushed to the bed and began shaking Uncle Vernon violently, received only an aggressive snore in response, filling him with relief. He ran down the hall and checked Dudley’s room, finding the same scene. The Dursleys had all been returned to their beds and put into a deep sleep, and Harry could only assume that their minds had been wiped of any sort of memory of what had happened.  
_Run!_  
Harry recalled the voice that had urged him to flee in his dreams, and decided it was finally time to listen. He ran to Dudley’s room and grabbed his Smeltings backpack to store some clothes in, which didn’t take long as he had very few possessions. He then ran into Uncle Vernon’s room and tore open the bedside table. He hastily snatched at as much money as he could grab, not keeping track of how much he had. He figured there was more than enough to last a few days, and was about to slam the drawer shut when he noticed a familiar looking yellowish parchment.  
It was the letter from Hogwarts.  
Harry snatched it from the drawer, shoving it into the backpack and then rushing downstairs. It was time to make his long-awaited escape from Number Four, Privet Drive.  
Harry was midway down the street, half-inspecting the ruined houses to his left, when an incredibly loud noise attracted his attention. It was the rough roar of a motorbike, but it wasn’t coming from ground level. It was coming from...the sky?  
Harry looked up and saw the most incredibly sight. Approaching the Dursleys house from the opposite end came a motorbike that glided through the sky, coming towards the ground and skidding to a rough halt in front of Number Four. Harry watched from a distance as a giant of a man stepped off the bike and took off his goggles, resting them on the seat before ascending the footpath and knocking hard on the Dursleys front door.  
Harry stayed long enough to see the giant break down the door and enter, making Harry extremely relieved he had chosen to flee. He turned his back to Privet Drive and rushed on, even faster than before.  
Once he was a safe distance away, he stopped and opened the backpack, taking out the letter. He couldn’t wait any longer to read it, and excitedly opened it up and unfolded the paper:

  
_HOGWARTS SCHOOL_ of _WITCHCRAFT_ and _WIZARDRY_

 _Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore_  
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,  
Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

_Dear Mr Potter,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

_Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall_   
_Deputy Headmistress_

Harry then turned the page over to see a bizarre list of things he was expected to have for school. This included books on spells, history, ‘transfiguration’, fantastic beasts and magical herbs. He also required a wand, a cauldron, a telescope, brass scales and a set glass or crystal phials. He was also, if he felt so obliged, allowed to bring an owl, cat or toad. However, Harry noted with interest that he was not allowed to bring his own broomstick.  
Standing on a street corner, Harry decided he needed to plan his next move carefully. With the money he had, he’d be able to catch a bus or taxi anywhere nearby without making too much of a dent in his supply. The problem was, Harry had nowhere to go. The police were no match for the wizards, who could make them forget anything they wanted and put them to sleep, and Harry had no friends or family he could stay with. Even Aunt Marge was still in the Isle of Wight, although Harry would have sooner handed himself in to the wizards than seek Aunt Marge’s help. With the letter in hand, he realised there was only one place he could go; Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.  
Scrutinizing the letter again, Harry saw that there was no address listed, which presented quite the problem. After a few moments of thought, he remembered something one of the wizards had said in the ruins.  
_“The Leaky Cauldron appears to muggles as a broken-down old shop on Charing Cross Road. They have no idea that it’s actually a wizarding pub.”_  
The Leaky Cauldron, a wizarding pub. Harry had no idea what he might find there, but it was a start. It was a connection to the wizarding world, and from there he may be able to piece together more information about Hogwarts. Harry set out for a bus stop, with the intention of catching a bus to London. He was off to Charing Cross Road, in search of a broken-down old shop.  
As he walked, Harry considered something else the letter from Hogwarts had stipulated.  
_Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July._  
The 31st July was Harry’s birthday, and it was fast approaching. He hoped that once he found Hogwarts and explained the situation, they would understand and forgive him for not contacting them.  
When the bus finally arrived and Harry stepped on, he glanced at the cheap wristwatch the driver sported.

 

It was midnight. Harry Potter was eleven years old.


	6. Suspicious Persons Unknown

It had been a very, very boring time at the Ministry. That was, until Cyclone Surrey arrived and Alastor Moody had a good reason to get off his arse.  
He was fast approaching the end of his career – a legendary one, at that – but knew the desire for thrills would never disappear. ‘Mad Eye’, as they called him, was never one for pencil-pushing. He wanted to be in the field, wand in hand, with a willing opponent ready for an arse-whooping.  
The door opened and in walked the three Aurors he had commissioned to investigate the scene of the storm. Moody scanned their facial expressions hopefully, searching for any sign of good news. He was disappointed with his analysis.  
“He’s still out there,” the woman, Proudfoot, began. Sprewett and Savage took seats opposite Moody’s desk.  
“He? Have we a suspect?”  
They glanced at each other uneasily. “In a way,” Savage finally replied.  
“In a way?” Moody probed, demanding an explanation. Sprewett took over.  
“There was a boy walking around the ruins, looking in. At first we thought he was a muggle, but he could definitely see us. He managed to escape with a muggle policeman-”  
“Officer,” Proudfoot corrected. “It’s a police officer.”  
Sprewett shrugged her off and continued. “We caught a name; Dudley Dursley.”  
Moody smiled wryly. “An address shouldn’t be too hard to find, should it?”  
“Number Four, Privet Drive.” Savage responded. Something about the address rang a bell, but Moody put it to the back of his mind. There were more important matters at hand.  
“Well then, what are we waiting for?”  
“We’ve been already.”  
“Then where’s the boy?”  
“We don’t know.”  
The smile disappeared quicker than you could say ‘Quidditch’.  
“He fooled us,” Proudfoot explained, looking down at her feet. “Dudley Dursley was another boy altogether. The suspect wasn’t at the house.”  
“How old is he?”  
“We’re not sure. Twelve, maybe. No less than ten.”  
“And he fooled you?”  
There was no response. Moody was not one to quarrel with.  
“And he is _definitely_ the only wizard in the area?” Moody continued.  
“We can’t say for certain,” Sprewett began, “but we’ve been looking for weeks and found no one. This boy was well hidden.”  
Moody nodded, accepting that it all sounded rather suspicious. “If the boy was a muggle-born with wizarding abilities, Dumbledore would’ve known. Fudge asked him about current and future Hogwarts students in the area. He must be extraordinarily well hidden, which begs many questions. I want him found; can you draw a sketch up?”  
Without a word between them, a roll of parchment was produced and they all bickered as a quill floated weightlessly across the page. After several minutes, they showed Moody.  
“Good” Moody said dryly in response. “I’ll take it to the Boss. Sit tight.”

Cornelius Fudge leant back in his plush sofa chair, sinking down as he stared into the flames that licked the edge of the fireplace. The recent weeks had been increasingly stressful, what with Cyclone Surrey and the lack of understanding around the freak event. Even as he sat now, he continued to ponder what could possibly have caused it.  
Dark magic was serious business. Furthermore, it was Ministry business; the use of dark magic on such a large scale was an urgent matter. When Sirius Black killed twelve muggles with a single curse, it had been major news. The entire wizarding world had been shaken up, but this was worse. Twelve muggles dead _and_ forty-eight in hospital. This was a disaster.  
Fudge wondered – not for the first time – whether the events posed any threat to his position at the Ministry.  
There was a loud knock at the door, making Fudge jump suddenly in his seat. Once he had regained control of himself, he called for his visitor to come in.  
Alastor Moody, the man he had appointed as Head of the Auror Office, entered stiffly.  
“Got an update for you, sir.”  
Moody took a seat at Fudge’s desk, as Fudge manoeuvred around to his business chair, adopting a more business-like posture. Moody stifled a laugh.  
“My Aurors’ investigation found nothing at the scene, but they have come across a boy. He’s a wizard, somewhere in the Little Whinging area, and he deceived my team. He’s clearly got something to hide, and he’s our top priority at the moment.”  
“Is this our only lead?” Fudge asked. Moody ignored him, and continued.  
“Here, we have a sketch of the suspect,” Moody said, producing the parchment and sliding it across to Fudge. “We’d like it circulated throughout Diagon Alley. Maybe not the _Daily Prophet_ just yet, the boy may see it and freak out.”  
“Would that not be the same case in Diagon Alley?”  
“We don’t believe he’d risk going there. Too many people, he’ll assume we’ve got it on lockdown.”  
Fudge nodded, finding the logic sound, then turning his attention to the sketch.  
Cornelius Fudge looked into the face of a boy – no older than twelve – with jet black, untidy hair that covered a good deal of his thin face. He appeared slightly underfed and sported large glasses. He certainly didn’t look like any old child, which would make their job far, far easier.  
Fudge nodded his approval. “Leave it with me. If this boy knows _something_ , I want to know what. Fantastic work, Moody.”  
With that, Mad Eye took his leave of Fudge, glad to have the formalities out of the way. It was time to dig into this investigation. The boy would be caught within days, he was sure of it.  
Before the door had closed, Fudge’s secretary slid through and caught his attention.  
“Mr Fudge, you have an appointment with an Arthur Weasley now, he’s waiting outside. Shall I send him in?”  
“Weasley? Is he the Muggle Artefacts one?”  
“Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, yes.”  
Fudge shook his head, taking his coat off the rack and putting it on. “I’m afraid I don’t have time for him, I’ve urgent business to attend to.”  
“Are you leaving?”  
Fudge nodded.  
“Where are you going?” she asked, as he extinguished the fireplace and stepped into it, taking a handful of Floo powder.  
“Hogwarts,” he answered, dropping the Floo powder and disappearing into a ball of green flames.  
“More bloody work done there than here, that’s for sure,” she muttered, turning and leaving to inform Mr Weasley that, unfortunately, Mr Fudge had urgent business to attend to. She resisted the urge to add that Fudge was visiting the Minister for Magic, and merely smirked at her thoughts.

Dumbledore had just been considering whether it would’ve been worth it to accept the post of Minster for Magic even if just to keep Fudge out, when the man himself entered his office once again.  
“We’ve had a breakthrough!”  
Dumbledore rose to his feet with more urgency than he had intended, betraying more emotion than was necessary. Fudge, however, was too absorbed in the parchment he was waving in the air to notice.  
“A boy, skulking around Little Whinging. A _wizard_ boy, one you didn’t know about.”  
“Oh?” Dumbledore said, the cold in his stomach returning, having laid dormant since Fudge’s last visit.  
“Indeed, and he has something to hide. Mad Eye’s Aurors caught him, and he deceived them. They got a sketch,” Fudge hurried excitedly, handing the parchment to Dumbledore.  
The headmaster took a very, very deep breath before looking at the sketch. It took far too long to exhale, as his lungs had frozen up upon immediately recognising the boy.  
It was Harry Potter.  
“How curious,” Dumbledore whispered.  
“Curious?”  
“That I wasn’t aware of him.”  
“Oh, of course.”  
A tense silence passed, before Fudge got to business.  
“Moody has asked for me to circulate his image throughout Diagon Alley, but not the _Daily Prophet_. We don’t want to scare him into remaining hidden.”  
“Then maybe, Cornelius, you should keep the photo hidden for the time being.”  
Fudge raised his eyebrows quizzically, not understanding.  
“This boy is very young, and certainly wasn’t working alone. If he’s even responsible, that is. He’ll surely have contacts who will see his image being passed around Diagon Alley.”  
Fudge’s eyeballs sunk in their sockets, as he realised what Dumbledore was saying.  
“If you want to avoid forcing him into hiding,” Dumbledore continued. “It might be best that you hold onto this for now.”  
He passed the parchment back, anxiously awaiting Fudge’s response.  
Finally, he agreed.  
“You’re right, of course. I’ll delay it for a few days, see if the boy pops up.”  
“Most wise of you, Cornelius.”  
With little else to discuss, the Minister for Magic left Dumbledore’s office to return to the Ministry and deal with what would be a very aggravated Alastor Moody.  
Just as soon as he had left, however, the revolving door that was the entrance to Dumbledore’s office shot Hagrid into his room.  
“Sumthin’ terrible ‘as ‘appened, Albus.”  
“I know, Rubeus. Cornelius was just here to fill me in. Harry is safe.”  
“Them Dursleys, though. Put right ter sleep, they were. Hope our ‘Arry don’t meet the same fate.”  
“He won’t, Rubeus. Not if we act fast.”  
Not in the slightest bit calmed, Hagrid took a seat across from Dumbledore.  
“He’s out there, alone, in that strange ol’ world” Hagrid said, glancing out Dumbledore’s window. “He’s not safe, not with...”  
Hagrid’s voice trailed off, not willing to continue.  
“Go on, Rubeus.”  
“I can’t, sir.”  
“You can,” Dumbledore encouraged.  
Hagrid took a large gulp. “He’s not safe with....Voldemort goin’ after him.”  
Hagrid exhaled loudly, having braved the unspeakable name.  
“Voldemort,” Dumbledore continued, “may not be the problem here. We hardly understand the situation, and remember this; if Alastor cannot track Harry, then neither can anyone else. He is safe, for now.”  
“But what can we do?” Hagrid asked, visibly distressed.  
Dumbledore smiled as he pulled out his wand and commanded a quill on his table to replicate the sketch on a new parchment.  
“Take this to everyone we trust on Diagon Alley, and tell them to contact you the second they see him. We’re a step ahead of the Ministry, for now. Trust in me, Rubeus. We’ll find Harry.”  
“I always ‘ave, sir.” Hagrid said, calming his nerves and taking the sketch from Dumbledore. With a task given to him, Hagrid had something to do to convince himself he was helping. For now, it would keep him from going over the edge, which Dumbledore knew perfectly well.  
“With haste, Rubeus. Time is of the essence.”  
Hagrid rushed out of Dumbledore’s office, out of Hogwarts, and out of Scotland. He had a job to do, and little time to do it.  
Harry Potter had to be found. Before Alastor, before the Ministry, and most importantly before whatever it was that had created that storm in Little Whinging. Despite anything Dumbledore said, the deepest parts of Hagrid’s soul knew exactly who was responsible.  
Harry Potter had to be found.


	7. The Leaky Cauldron

When Harry had stepped off the bus at Charing Cross Station, it hadn’t taken long to find a map and figure out where Charing Cross Road was located.  
Walking along it, Harry passed various stores; book shops, music stores, hamburger restaurants, cinemas; but nothing that looked magical. Harry was just beginning to reconsider his entire journey when he stumbled upon a tiny, grubby-looking pub. On a street brimmed with modern stores, this one stuck out like a sore thumb. And yet, the other people walking past didn’t take any notice. A great big sign above the door proudly declared it ‘ _The Leaky Cauldron’_.  
Testing that this was truly a wizarding place, Harry stopped a middle-aged man on the street.  
“Excuse me, sir, but do you know when this store is opening again?”  
The man smiled sympathetically. “I’ve walked down this road on the way to the station every day for nineteen years, and I’m afraid it’s been closed. Good spot too, a shame no one has bought it.”  
Harry mumbled thanks as the man left, awestruck that it had actually worked. This was the place, and it was _actually_ invisible to ‘muggles’, which Harry had assumed were non-magic folk. Nervously, he walked forward and opened the door, entering.  
Inside it was dark and shabby and busy. A few old women were sitting in a corner, drinking tiny glasses of sherry. A little man in a top hat was talking to the old bartender, who was quite bald and looked like a gummy walnut. Further along, a pale young man sporting a purple turban kept to himself. There was a low buzz of chatter that went interrupted as Harry weaved his way through, looking for a spare seat somewhere.  
Finally, at a table with two witches and a wizard, Harry found somewhere to sit down. He asked them if they wouldn’t mind very much, and they welcomed him to a seat.  
“You all on your own?” the man asked. Harry nodded. “My parents are out shopping.”  
“In Diagon Alley?” the man asked, as Harry nodded again, assuming this made sense to them.  
“A little irresponsible to leave you all on your own, don’t you think Dolores?”  
The other woman shook her head, not finding it odd. She then extended her hand to Harry. “Dolores Clearview, pleasure to meet you.”  
Harry smiled back, taking her hand and shaking it. “Dudley Dursley, nice to meet you too.  
The other two then introduced themselves. One was Janus Boardman, who was on break from his job at something called the Ministry of Magic, and the other woman was his wife, Erika Boardman. They had just been discussing Cyclone Surrey when Harry had sat down and they resumed their conversation.  
“I had a minute alone with Arthur Weasley,” Janus said, “and he was waiting outside Fudge’s office when Mad Eye visited him to update him on the investigation. It seems they have a suspect; a boy!”  
The two women exclaimed excitedly, clearly enjoying the gossip. Harry’s gut told him that he was the boy, and so he dropped his head a little, suddenly uncomfortable in the pub.  
Looking around, he saw a fireplace that suddenly burst to life with green flames that then formed the outline of a man, that then became a man. Before his jaw had dropped, the man had stepped out and approached the bartender to order, while a woman stood in the fireplace. She took a handful of some sort of powder, and dropped it into the fireplace. She clearly said something, but Harry couldn’t hear. She then went the opposite of the man before her; the green flames engulfed her and she disappeared.  
Harry suddenly became acutely aware of the fact that he was being spoken to.  
“....in at Hogwarts?”  
“Pardon?” Harry asked generally, unsure of who had spoken to him. It was Dolores.  
“What year will you be in at Hogwarts?”  
The mention of Hogwarts had caught Harry off guard, and he found himself unable to speak. Dolores took this as Harry having been offended. “Oh, I apologise. Are you homeschooled?”  
Harry shook his head. “No, I’ll be starting this year.”  
The three exchanged excited looks. “How exciting!” Erika exclaimed. “You’ll be in the same year as Harry Potter!”  
Despite all that had happened in the previous weeks, this was without a doubt the strangest moment of Harry’s life.  
_How do they know who I am?_  
“Harry Potter?” Harry Potter asked.  
His three companions gawked at him quizzically.  
“You don’t know who Harry Potter is?” they all asked in unison.  
Harry shook his head.  
Janus cleared his throat, preparing to tell a story.  
“Well, it was a little over ten years ago now, back when You-Know-Who was in power. He went to Godric’s Hollow one night, hell-bent on killing the Potters, and-”  
“Why did he want to kill the Potters?” Harry interrupted suddenly.  
“Well, they were against him. They were on the other side of the war. Anyway, You-Know-Who goes on to Godric’s Hollow and everything goes to bits. James Potter; dead. Lily Potter; dead. And suddenly he turns his wand on little Harry to finish it all off. Harry Potter, defenceless in his crib. Many didn’t think You-Know-Who had it in him, but he was hardly human. So he goes to kill Harry, and something goes wrong. Nobody knows what, exactly, but You-Know-Who died that night and Harry didn’t. The whole wizarding world rejoiced, and Harry Potter became one of the most famous wizards ever, and he got a nasty scar on his forehead to prove it.”  
Harry fought hard to resist the urge to touch the forehead that his generous fringe was covering.  
“Who’s You-Know-Who?”  
Janus stared at Harry for several seconds, dumbfounded. Then, a smile broke over his face and he burst into a fit of laughter. Dolores and Erika soon joined it.  
“He was pulling our legs!” he exclaimed, as Harry forced himself to laugh too. Inside, he was terrified. Just yesterday, Lily and James Potter had been normal people who died in a car crash, and Harry a forgotten orphan. Now, they were two wizards murdered by a mysterious ‘You-Know-Who’, and Harry himself was one of the most famous wizards of all time.  
“You’ll be seeing Potter at Hogwarts, no doubt. No idea where he’s been for the last eleven years, though,” Janus continued.  
_Imprisoned._  
“I can’t wait. I don’t know much about Hogwarts.” Harry suddenly sensed a brilliant opportunity. “Where is it?”  
“Scotland,” Dolores answered, “just up the road from Hogsmeade.”  
“Hogsmeade? I’m sorry, I’ve spent a lot of time with muggles. Do you know any muggle towns that are near?”  
Much to Harry’s disappointment, Dolores shook her head. Erika, however, had an answer for him.  
“Dufftown,” she said. “It’s near Dufftown, Scotland.”  
_Dufftown, Scotland. Remember that._  
“Well, lunch break is over,” Janus said glumly. “Time to get back to the Ministry.”  
He then turned his attention to Harry. “I’m heading through to Diagon Alley. Would you like to come with me?”  
Harry’s heart soared, as he gleefully agreed to go. He bid farewell to Erika and Dolores, following Janus out into a small, walled courtyard. There was nothing but a trash can and a few weeds.  
Janus approached a brick wall and produced a wand, tapping the bricks in an odd pattern, and then stood back.  
The bricks he touched quivered – and wriggled – in the middle, where a small hole appeared, growing wider and wider. Suddenly, Harry and Janus were facing an archway large enough for a giant, which led onto a cobbled street that twisted and turned out of sight.  
Janus stepped through and Harry followed, watching the bricks rearrange and form a wall again behind them.  
What followed was, in Harry’s mind, pandemonium. Suddenly, he wished he had eight more eyes to take in all the wonderful sights. He turned his head in every direction as they walked up the street, trying to look at everything at once; the shops, the things outside them, the people doing their shopping. All sorts of things were on sale, many of which Harry recognised from his Hogwarts letter; cauldrons, books, wands, animals and broomsticks. Never in Harry’s life had he seen such a warm and peculiar little street.  
“Well, this is where I leave you,” Janus announced, looking down at Harry. “You’ll be able to find your parents, won’t you?”  
Harry nodded. Regardless, Janus reached into his pocket and produced several gold coins.  
“Here you go, Dudley. A couple galleons to buy yourself something nice if they take too long. Have a very nice day, now, and enjoy Hogwarts!”  
Janus began to walk away, before pausing and returning, once again reaching into his pocket. This time, he produced a card.  
“Darn Witches and Wizards cards, I got one with my frog at lunch. Would you like it? I’ve no use for it.”  
Harry took the card from him, unsure what he was grateful for, and bid Janus farewell. He then turned his attention to the card.  
It showed a man’s face. He wore half-moon glasses, had a long, crooked nose, and flowing silver hair, beard and moustache. Underneath the picture was the name Albus Dumbledore. Harry knew he’d read the name before, but couldn’t remember where. On the other side, there was writing;

 **ALBUS DUMBLEDORE**  
**Currently Headmaster of Hogwarts**

_Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern times, Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood, and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel. Professor Dumbledore enjoys chamber music and tenpin bowling._

When Harry turned the card back over, Dumbledore was gone.  
_So this is going to be my Headmaster._  
Harry then looked at the gold that was given to him, and knew he needed to use it wisely. He had plenty of Uncle Vernon’s money, but it didn’t take a genius to realise that couldn’t be used in Diagon Alley. He decided the most important thing was a place to stay, and so he turned back towards The Leaky Cauldron.

“A room? For you?”  
“My father is shopping, he sent me ahead to get a room.”  
“Have you got enough for it?”  
Harry showed him the galleons he had, praying they were enough.  
It appeared they were. “Okay, follow me,” the bartender said, still sceptical.  
The room Harry was given was relatively small, but it had a bed, and that was all Harry wanted.  
As soon as the bartender had left the room, Harry collapsed onto the bed and closed his eyes. He was asleep in seconds.

_Shadows. A green flash. A woman’s screams. A spine-tingling laugh. Sweat. Sweat. Lots of sweat._   
_But then it came back. The white light and the soothing voice. So much stronger than before, so much...closer._   
_“Stay where you are,” it ordered him earnestly. “Someone is coming to help. Stay put, we’re coming to get you.”_

Harry awoke suddenly, covered in sweat and terrified. Someone was coming get him, but who? And what on earth was that voice in his dreams? Who could it be?

Then, after several seconds catching his breath, Harry finally noticed the other person in the room.


	8. The Keeper of the Keys

Hagrid had downed his fourth mug of Butterbeer – on a less important trip he’d have settled with Ogden’s Old Firewhisky – when he remembered why he was at the Leaky Cauldron. He called the bartender, Tom, over for a quick word, as he slowly slipped Dumbledore’s sketch out of his pocket.  
Hagrid glanced around to ensure no one was watching before he slid it across the bar to Tom. “Here on official Hogwarts business, Tom. You seen this boy ‘round here, by any chance?”  
Tom studied the sketch, glancing from Hagrid to the sketch and back to Hagrid.  
“What’s this all about, then?” he demanded.  
“Sorry Tom, can’t say. Strictly ‘tween Dumbledore and meself.”  
Tom nodded in frustrated understanding. “Knew there was something fishy about that boy. Come on.”  
As Tom led him upstairs to the rooms where paying customers slept, he explained that a boy looking exactly like the one in the sketch had introduced himself as Dudley Dursley and claimed his father would be coming soon, buying a room. He showed Hagrid to the door and unlocked it for him, telling him not to cause too much noise. Then, Tom walked away and left Hagrid to his business.  
Hagrid stepped inside the small room, as quietly as he could, and saw Harry lying in bed, asleep.  
_Poor lad, probably had a rough coupla days. I’ll let ‘im rest._  
Hagrid then took a seat at the tiny one-person table in the corner of the room, looking out onto Diagon Alley. As Harry slept, Hagrid nervously watched people bustle through the streets. He took comfort in watching the young children excitedly buying all of their school equipment. It reminded him of when he had been Harry’s age, preparing for his first year at Hogwarts, excited to really become a wizard...  
Harry suddenly shot up, drenched in sweat and terrified. He caught his breathe for a few moments, closing his eyes to calm himself. Then he took the room in and saw Hagrid, his eyes going wide open.

It was the giant. The one on the flying motorcycle on Privet Drive, who had come in after Harry fled. Harry crawled backwards in the bed until his back hit the frame and he had nowhere else to go.  
The giant jumped up out of his seat and threw his hands up, as if to declare innocence.  
“It’s okay, it’s okay! I’m not ‘ere to hurt yer, I’m not. Albus Dumbledore sent me.”  
Harry’s breathing eased slightly at the mention of Dumbledore’s name.  
_The Headmaster of Hogwarts sent him? They’re looking for me?_  
“You needn’t worry Harry, I’m gonna keep yer safe. Swore me life on it, I did.”  
Suddenly, his eyes lit up excitedly. “Hold on a second, I got summat for yer!”  
Hagrid suddenly dashed out of the room, making it shake. He had returned within a few minutes, holding a slightly squashed box. He smiled proudly as Harry opened it and saw a large, sticky chocolate cake with ‘Happy Birthday, Harry’ written on it in green icing. Harry felt his stomach go warm. “Thank you,” he whispered.  
He then looked up to see a beaming Hagrid and smiled. “No one has ever given me a cake before.”  
Hagrid shrugged. “It’s nuthin, really. More important things ter talk about.”  
Harry sat up, finding a more comfortable position than pressed against the bed frame. He had eased up now, something inside of him urging him to trust Hagrid.  
_Someone is coming to help. We’re coming to get you._  
This must’ve been the person the voice was sending, which would make the voice...  
“Why did Albus Dumbledore send you?” Harry asked, then realising a much better question. “Hold on...who are you?”  
Hagrid stiffened his back, taking on a more business-like posture.  
“Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts.”  
He held out an enormous hand and shook Harry’s whole arm.  
“There’s plenty ta tell yer, ‘Arry, but not a whole lotta time ta do it. I’ll have ter explain as we go. Come on, we’ve gotta get you some money.”  
Harry looked at him quizzically. “Money? But, I’ve got no money. My parents are dead.”  
“You don’t think Lily and James Potter were poor, did yer? They didn’ leave yer with nuthin. Off to Gringotts with yer, then!”  
Hagrid then walked out of the room, leaving Harry confused and alone. Several second later, Hagrid’s head poked back in.  
“Come on!”

As they walked through Diagon Alley, Hagrid gave Harry a rundown of various aspects of the wizarding world.  
“...an’ then there’s Gringotts, the wizarding bank. That’s where we’re ‘eaded now. Yeh’d be mad ter try an’ rob it, I’ll tell yeh that. Never mess with goblins, Harry. Gringotts is the safest place in the world fer anything yeh want ter keep safe – ‘cept maybe Hogwarts. As a matter o’ fact, I gotta visit Gringotts anyway. Fer Dumbledore. Hogwarts business.” Hagrid drew himself up proudly. “He usually gets me ter do important stuff fer him. Fetchin’ you, gettin’ things from Gringotts – knows he can trust me, see. Ah, speakin’ of...”  
Harry looked up to see a snowy white building that towered over the other little shops. Standing beside its burnished bronze, wearing a uniform of scarlet and gold, was –  
“Yeah, that’s a goblin,” said Hagrid quietly as they walked up the white stone steps toward him. The goblin was a head shorter than Harry. He had a swarthy, clever face, a pointed beard and, Harry noticed, very long fingers and feet. Inside the building, there was a second pair of doors with words engraved upon them;

_Enter, stranger, but take heed_   
_Of what awaits the sin of greed,_   
_For those who take, but do not earn,_   
_Must pay most dearly in their turn._   
_So if you seek beneath our floors_   
_A treasure that was never yours,_   
_Thief, you have been warned, beware_   
_Of finding more than treasure there._

“Like I said, yeh’d be mad ter try an’ rob it.” said Hagrid.

The entire trip to Gringotts had been extraordinary. A goblin named Griphook took Harry and Hagrid onto a cart, where they hurtled through a maze of twisting passages.  
When they stepped off of the cart at Harry’s vault – Hagrid taking a moment to let his insides settle – Harry discovered mounds of gold coins, columns of silver, and heaps of little bronze coins.  
“All yours,” smiled Hagrid.  
Smiling, Harry took it all in. The Dursleys couldn’t have known about all this or they’d have had it from him in the blink of an eye. Hagrid helped Harry pile some of it into a bag, as he explained how the currency of the wizarding world worked. Once they were done, Hagrid turned to Griphook.  
“Vault seven-hundred and thirteen now, please, and can we go more slowly?”  
“One speed only,” said Griphook.  
When they arrived at vault seven-hundred and thirteen, Harry saw that it was a heavily guarded vault, far more than his had been. When it opened, Harry expected some sort of collection of fabulous jewels and relics – but instead he thought he saw an empty vault. As Hagrid stepped in and scooped it up, Harry finally spotted a grubby little package wrapped up in brown paper lying on the floor. Tucking it deep inside his coat, Hagrid then said it was time to go. “Official Hogwarts business.” was all Harry could get out of Hagrid whenever he asked what the package was.

The rest of the day was spent getting Harry’s school supplies, which he inspected more carefully on his Hogwarts letter.

 _HOGWARTS SCHOOL_ of _WITCHCRAFT_ and _WIZARDRY_

_UNIFORM_

_First-year students will require:_   
_1\. Three sets of plain work robes (black)_   
_2\. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear_   
_3\. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)_   
_4\. One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)_   
_Please note that all pupils’ clothes should carry name tags._

_COURSE BOOKS_

_All students should have a copy of each of the following:_  
 _-_ The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) _by Miranda Goshawk_  
 _-_ A History of Magic _by Bathilda Bagshot_  
 _-_ Magical Theory _by Adalbert Waffling_  
 _-_ A Beginners’ Guide to Transfiguration _by Emetic Switch_  
 _-_ One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi _by Phyllida Spore_  
 _-_ Magical Drafts and Potions _by Arsenius Jigger_  
 _-_ Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them _by Newt Scamander_  
 _-_ The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection _by Quentin Trimble_

_OTHER EQUIPMENT_

_\- Wand_   
_\- Cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)_   
_\- Set glass or crystal phials_   
_\- Telescope set_   
_\- Brass scales_   
_\- Students may also bring an owl OR cat OR a toad_

_PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS._

“Can we get all of this on Diagon Alley?” Harry asked.  
“Of course yer can, jus’ gotta know where ter look.”  
Over the course of the day, they visited countless shops to buy all of Harry’s school equipment. First, Harry’s uniform at Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions. They then bought Harry’s school books in a shop called Flourish and Blotts where the shelves were stacked to the ceiling with books as large as paving stones bound in leather. Then an owl at Eeylops owl Emporium, a special birthday present from Hagrid. They got Harry’s potion ingredients at the Apothecary, and his wand at Ollivanders. Ollivanders had been interesting – the wand Harry received (holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple) , in fact, shared its lineage with just one other want. The wand that had killed Harry’s parents, that had then tried to kill Harry himself. You-Know-Who’s wand.  
Once that was all complete, they returned to the Leaky Cauldron, where Hagrid bought them a larger room with two beds.  
“We’ll sleep here tonight and get some rest, tomorrow we’ll be flying back ter Hogwarts, you’ll be safe there.”  
“Safe from what, exactly? I don’t know why I’d be in danger.”  
Hagrid appeared to contemplate his actions, finally opting to sit down next to Harry.  
“I was gonna wait until we got to Hogwarts, an’ let Professor Dumbledore tell yer, but I suppose you ought to hear it now. Harry, d’yer know how yer parents died?”  
Harry nodded, much to Hagrid’s surprise. “Who is You-Know-Who?” Harry asked. “What’s his real name?”  
Hagrid seemed terrified at the concept of having to say it.  
“Well – I don’ like sayin’ the name if I can help it. No one does.”  
“Why not?”  
“Gulpin’ gargoyles, Harry, people are still scared. Blimey, this is difficult. See, he was a wizard who went...bad. As bad as you could go. Worse. Worse than worse. His name was...”  
Hagrid gulped, but no words came out.  
“Could you write it down?” Harry suggested.  
“Nah – can’t spell it. All right – Voldemort.” Hagrid shuddered. Harry registered this.  
_Voldemort. Voldemort killed my parents. Voldemort ruined my life._  
“Best we get some sleep,” Hagrid suggested. “Got a long ride tomorrow.”  
Harry agreed, wishing Hagrid goodnight and sliding into bed.  
As he fell asleep, he mulled the name over in his mind.  
_Voldemort._

_“Harry,” the soothing voice spoke clearly to Harry, closer than ever. “Keep the stone safe. Keep it close. You cannot let anyone have it. Please, Harry. The stone is of the utmost importance.”_   
_“What stone?” Harry tried to ask, but again he couldn’t speak. “Dumbledore?” he tried again, to the same result._   
_“The stone, Harry. You must remember.”_   
_The voice faded and the white light disappeared, as a single word bounced around in his mind, bringing a wall into view with a woman’s shadow on it._   
_Voldemort. Voldemort. Voldemort. Voldemort. Voldemort. Voldemort. Voldemort._   
_The woman begged for mercy, to leave her son alone. Please, no, take me. Not Harry, not Harry, not Harry, not Harry, not Harry, not Harry, not Harry, not Harry, not Harry._   
_Foolish girl, standing in my way. I’ll be kind, and make it quick. The green flashed everywhere, and Harry’s face began burning unbearably._   
_Avada kedavra. Avada kedavra. Avada kedavra. Burning. Avada kedavra. Avada kedavra. Avada kedavra. No! Harry! AVADA KEDAVRA. AVADA KEDAVRA. LEAVE HARRY ALONE. NOT MY SON. AVADA KEDAVRA. AVADA KEDAVRA. PROTECT THE STONE. HAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRYYYYYYYYY. NNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOO._

Harry couldn’t hear it, but he could feel himself screaming in pain as he awoke. His forehead felt as if it was on fire, and Harry quickly identified the source of the pain as the lighting-bolt scar Voldemort had left him with. Then he realised that his feet were being crushed.  
The room was pitch black. Harry attempted to sit up to remove whatever was on his feet, and immediately smacked his head on something hard. Using his hands, he pushed up and cleared piles of wood from above him, discovering that it was the early hours of the morning and he was covered in rubble. Where the wall of his room had once protected him from the outside world, Harry now had an unobstructed view of Diagon Alley, and the large crowd peering up at the Leaky Cauldron. Well, what was left of it.  
Climbing out of his bed, Harry scrambled into Hagrid’s room and found the half-giant covered in blood and motionless on the floor.  
“Hagrid!” Harry screamed, rushing to his aid. He shook and shook, but received nothing.  
Looking around and surveying the damage, it didn’t take Harry long to realise what had happened.  
Cyclone Surrey had returned, and this time there was no denying it; it wanted Harry Potter dead.  
Fighting back the tears that were welling in his eyes, Harry ran back to his room and attempted to locate the things he thought he’d need; his backpack with Uncle Vernon’s money and clothes and put his bag full of galleons inside.  
_Keep the stone safe._  
What had Dumbledore meant? What stone?  
Working on a hunch, Harry ran back to Hagrid’s room and began ransacking the half-giant’s coat until he found the package from vault seven-hundred and thirteen at Gringotts. Harry hurriedly tore it open, finding inside a marvellous site.  
Inside was a tiny, blood-red stone. Harry snatched it out and threw it in his bag, then escaping the remains of the Leaky Cauldron and into Diagon Alley. As he came upon the large crowd of spectators, he heard a loud flash and was blinded momentarily, then realised someone had taken a photo of him. Wanting to avoid any further attention, Harry sprinted down the road with all the speed he could muster, seeing that almost every shop on Diagon Alley had either been destroyed or battered by the storm.  
After a few hundred metres, Harry paused to catch some air and spotted a sign laying cracked and splintered on the ground. He flipped it over to see ‘ _The Leaky Cauldron’_ written on the front.  
_Oh God..._  
Harry collapsed onto the cobblestone street and let it out. Tears and tears and tears, a mixture of frustration and sadness. Tears for Hagrid, tears for himself, tears for everyone.  
What am I going to do?  
With trembling hands, Harry opened his bag and pulled out the stone, inspecting it closely.  
Why are you so important? Why does Dumbledore want you so bad?  
Then, remembering Dumbledore, Harry knew what needed to happen next.  
He had to complete Hagrid’s mission, and do what Harry himself had set out to do the moment he left Number Four, Privet Drive.  
He had to find Hogwarts.


	9. Diagon Alley

“Plenty o’ leaks in the cauldron now,” a bystander joked as the crowd parted before Dumbledore. The bystander, who Dumbledore recognised as a former student, received a very stern look that made him go pale. The man, however, was very right. The Leaky Cauldron was all but destroyed.  
The building only half stood, remaining upright on an odd angle that reminded Dumbledore of the Weasley family’s home, the Burrow. The remains of a bed could be seen on the second floor, covered in wooden rubble. Dumbledore wondered where Hagrid was; he had not heard from him since he left for Diagon Alley, and such an event would’ve made his dear friend hurry to contact him.  
“Dumbledore? Dumbledore! Thank heavens you’re here.”  
The voice of Cornelius Fudge was unmistakable, as was the relief at Dumbledore’s presence.  
“Cornelius, what has happened?”  
“Another storm,” Fudge replied, the fear in his eyes evident.  
“Are you sure it was a storm?”  
“You know damn well what it was, Dumbledore. I’ve already told you,” he said, leaning forward to whisper the end of the sentence. “It was dark magic.”  
Looking around Diagon Alley, and seeing the destruction that continued as far down the street as he could see, Dumbledore found it hard to argue.  
“We must remain calm, Cornelius. Your response will guide the wizarding world; don’t let it be panic.”  
“How the hell am I not supposed to panic?” he panicked. “Something is destroying the country, and we haven’t a single bloody clue what!”  
Fudge stepped into the crowd and furiously snatched a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ from an onlooker, handing it to Dumbledore. The headmaster looked down at the front page, he himself suddenly needing to control the rising tide of panic in his chest.  
In large, bold letters it had printed ‘HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WIZARD?’, and underneath it a photo of a young boy emerging from the ruins and running away with a bag on his back.  
It was Harry.  
“We’re giving them the sketch, they’ll be printing it in the afternoon edition.”  
“Cornelius, I do insist that you consider holding off for-”  
“Holding off?” Fudge exclaimed. “This boy is dangerous and he must be caught! There are no other options, Dumbledore. We must act _now_.”  
And with that, the Minister for Magic took off, leaving Dumbledore alone and frantically thinking up solutions when someone took Fudge’s place next to him.  
“Hello, Professor.”  
“Mad Eye, my friend. How are you?”  
“Things have been better, sir. This business with the storm...I can’t make heads or tails of it.”  
A silence passed between them, finally broken by Moody.  
“Sir, I’m no fool. I’m leading this investigation and, well...”  
“Yes, Alastor?”  
“I know that’s the Potter boy, Lily and James’ little one.”  
Dumbledore nodded with interest. “Then why have you not reported to Fudge?”  
“You know damn well why,” Moody responded, seemingly impatient with Dumbledore. “We were all part of something special, a brotherhood,” Moody continued. “The Order was special, and I’m not going to just hand Lily and James Potter’s boy over to an incompetent weasel like Fudge.”  
“Thank you, Alastor.”  
“Is there anything I can do?”  
Dumbledore sighed, knowing that drastic actions needed to be taken.  
“I shall be calling upon you soon. Be ready.”  
With that, Dumbledore began to walk away, but Moody called to him.  
“When they were clearing bodies, there was a big one. A half-giant, by my reckoning.”  
Dumbledore felt a stabbing pain in his heart. “Was he alive?”  
Moody looked away. “Barely.”  
Dumbledore swallowed. “St Mungo’s?”  
Moody nodded, and in a flash Dumbledore was gone.

The half-giant was lying motionless on the bed, but the nurses assured Dumbledore that he was alive, and they believed he would pull through. After three hours, he finally opened his eyes and began jumping around and yelling, as if emerging from a nightmare.  
As soon as he saw Dumbledore, he began to weep.  
“I’m so sorry, Professor. I messed up, I didn’t protect ‘him. Little ‘Arry is out there on ‘is own.”  
“Its okay, Rubeus. You did all you could.”  
Hagrid shook his head rapidly, not agreeing in the slightest with Dumbledore’s comments. “No, sir, not this time. I failed, I lost Harry an’ I lost the stone.”  
Dumbledore closed his eyes, trying not to betray any emotion. In the pandemonium, Dumbledore had forgotten about the stone, and didn’t know if Hagrid had retrieved it from Gringotts just yet.  
“It’s okay, Rubeus,” Dumbledore repeated.  
He put his hand on Hagrid’s and, over the next ten minutes, allowed Hagrid to let all of his tears out and slowly calm down.  
“It was terrifyin’, sir,” Hagrid began, recounting his experience. “I was sleepin’, mindin’ me own business, when there was an almighty roar. Weren’t human, sir. No way. Screeched and roared and everythin’ was torn up. Wood flyin’ everywhere, everythin’ breakin’, an’ then I saw it.”  
Hagrid’s eyes went wide as he recalled the creature. “It was huge, and black. Looked like... like smoke, or summat like it. All oily, it was. Like... death.”  
Dumbledore did not expect Hagrid to speak anymore, and instead gripped his hand tighter.  
“I’m glad you’re alive, Rubeus. You’re okay.”  
“But what about Harry?” Hagrid demanded, getting worked up again. “I don’t know what ‘appened to him, he could be dead. What if-”  
“Harry,” Dumbledore began, interrupting, “is quite alright, Rubeus. He escaped without a scratch.”  
Hagrid breathed a huge sigh of relief, and settled back down into the bed. “How d’yer know, sir?”  
Dumbledore picked up a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ that he had been reading while he waited for Hagrid to awake, and showed him the cover.  
“Oh no...” Hagrid whispered delicately. “Whole world’ll be lookin’ fer him now.”  
“Unfortunately they will,” Dumbledore responded. “But he’s done so well up to now. I trust he’ll remain hidden.”  
“Sir, I need you to answer summat honestly fer me.”  
Dumbledore nodded, indicating for Hagrid to continue.  
“Is he back?”  
Once again, Dumbledore nodded. “This is serious Dark magic, Rubeus. I don’t see any other explanation.”  
Hagrid looked away, nodding solemnly.  
With that, Dumbledore stood up. “I best be going now, Rubeus. There is much to be done. You stay here and rest, you’ve done well. I need you to know I don’t hold you responsible for anything that has happened. Do you understand?”  
As a few rogue tears crept down Hagrid’s face, he nodded. Dumbledore then remembered something else.  
“Rubeus...did you go to Gringotts yesterday?”  
“I did, sir.”  
“In my old age, I’ve forgotten. What vault was the stone in?”  
“Er...seven-‘undred an’ thirteen, sir.”  
“Ah, yes. Thank you, rest up now.”  
Dumbledore stepped out into the hallway, deeply troubled. He opened the Daily Prophet and turned to the second page, where the biggest article aside from the storm had been situated.

**_SHOCK BREAK-IN AT GRINGOTTS_ **

_Yesterday, the 31st July, Gringotts Wizarding Bank in Diagon Alley was subject to a very, very rare occurrence; a break-in._

_The Gringotts goblins insist that nothing has been stolen. “It was one of our most secure vaults, in the seventh level, which is concerning,” said one goblin, who asked to remain anonymous._

_The bank claims that the break-in must have been the work of Dark wizards or witches unknown. They also remain firm in their belief that Gringotts is the safest place in Britain, and that this anomaly “shall never be repeated.”_

Although the article didn’t specify which vault, Dumbledore and Nicolas Flamel had paid quite generously to ensure the stone was kept on the seventh level, one of the most heavily protected in the bank. This was no coincidence; Voldemort had tried to steal the Philosopher’s Stone. But he would have been far too weak to do it himself.  
_He has a helper, someone to assist him him his evil deeds. But who?_

By nightfall, Dumbledore had arrived back at the castle. Usually, he would be preparing for bed, so as to ensure he was fully alert and ready for the following day.  
But not tonight. There was much more to be done tonight.  
He knocked sharply on a large wooden door, hearing a voice from within call for him to enter.  
Dumbledore didn’t particularly like the dungeons at Hogwarts, but they were a necessary addition to the school. Not to mention, when it came to the dungeons it wasn’t Dumbledore’s opinion that mattered; it was Professor Snape’s.  
“Professor Dumbledore, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Snape asked, rising from his desk.  
“I’m afraid I must ask you a rather personal question, Severus.”  
Snape’s upper lip defied the laws of physics as it managed to stiffen even more than it already had. “I see,” he replied.  
“Has there been any activity?” Dumbledore asked, looking at Snape’s left arm. Snape’s hand glided, almost protectively, to his wrist.  
“There has been a slight burning sensation lately,” Snape replied hesitantly.  
Dumbledore nodded gravely. “I had feared as much.”  
“Why do you ask, sir?”  
“Never mind that. The time has come, Severus.”  
Snape’s eyebrows raised in interest. “The time for what?”  
“To call the Order, Severus. It’s time.”


	10. The Scrawny Backpacker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only a very short chapter, this time. I wasn't keen on publishing such little writing, but it is a scene that needs to happen and a narrative progression the reader needs to know about, so forgive me!

Shadows. Green. Avada kedavra. Leave Harry alone.  
All turned to white, as the voice returned to Harry.  
“Don’t wait for the Hogwarts Express, they’ll catch you,” the voice warned, as Harry thought back to Hagrid’s explanation of Platform 9¾.  
“You must find your way to me. Find your way to Hogwarts. Don’t trust the wizards, stick to the Muggle world.”  
Harry desperately tried to speak, but he couldn’t.  
“You may know who I am, Harry. My name is Albus Dumbledore, and I need you to keep the stone safe. Please, Harry. Keep it safe.”

Harry didn’t know what to do.  
He had just woken up on the uncomfortable park bench and realised that, throughout the course of the day, he had gotten no closer to figuring out how he was going to get to Scotland. It was so far away, and he had no hope of getting onto a plane. Hitchhiking had come into his mind as a possibility, but even an eleven-year-old knew how terrible an idea that was.  
Knowing it was illegal to be sleeping in a Muggle park, Harry sat up and grabbed his bag, leaving the park and setting off down the street for some breakfast.  
Cody’s Cafe, a gorgeous little cafe in a laneway off of Charing Cross Road, opened at the crack of dawn and served Harry, their first customer of the day, bacon and eggs with sausage and orange juice. Harry liked that they didn’t look at him oddly for being a young boy without his parents, as they were likely too tired to care. Instead, they served him his breakfast and cared only if he had enough money to pay for it.  
A waitress came over to take his food when he was done.  
“Coffee, m’dear?” she asked, and Harry shook his head.  
“No thanks. Actually, I was wondering if you could tell me how to get to Scotland?”  
The waitress looked at Harry quizzically, before considering the question. “Scotland? Well, erm, where abouts?”  
“Dufftown.”  
“Dufftown? That’s up Inverness way. I suppose a plane would be the easiest way, but there’s always the M6 as well. You just keep driving and you can get anywhere in Scotland.”  
“Is there anything else I could do? Preferably not a plane or a car.”  
The woman crossed her arms and thought deeply.  
“Well, I suppose there’s always the train.”  
The train! Of course! Why hadn’t I thought of that?  
“There’s one that leaves from King’s Cross,” the woman continued. “Will take you straight up to Inverness or Aberdeen, and you’ll be able to find your way to Dufftown from there.”  
“Thank you!” Harry exclaimed, scooping up his belongings and tearing out the door.  
“What an odd little boy,” the woman mused as she watched Harry take off, before returning to the kitchen to wash Harry’s plate.


	11. The Order of the Phoenix

The Hog’s Head proved a fitting venue, far better than Dumbledore’s office, for this surprise meeting. As they piled in one-by-one – some nervous, some excited, some purely interested – the time to begin drew nearer and nearer.  
Finally, Dumbledore stood up.  
“Firstly, I would like to thank you all so very, very much for coming on such short notice. It is a very busy time, especially for those of you working at the Ministry.” He eyes Moody in particular as he finished the sentence.  
Nods of understanding went around the room. “What’s so urgent, Albus?” a voice called out, which sounded an awful lot like Sturgis Podmore.  
“To put it bluntly,” Dumbledore responded to the entire group, “Harry Potter is in grave danger, and we must find him before anyone else does.”  
A series of frantic whispers coursed around the room.  
“Harry Potter?”  
“Who’d be tryna kill him? He’s a hero!”  
“Yes, most concerning.”  
“Quiet, quiet, please,” Dumbledore boomed, as a hush fell across. “We have very little time to waste.”  
“Is he the boy in the papers?” Emmeline Vance asked.  
“He’d have to be, the kid looks exactly like James, if he didn’t eat for a year,” Dedalus Diggle joked, bringing a light smile to Remus Lupin’s face.  
“Yes, the boy is Harry Potter,” Dumbledore answered, returning the seriousness to the room.  
“Why can’t the Ministry find them? It’s their job, isn’t it?” Sturgis Podmore piped up, directing his question at Moody more than Dumbledore. The headmaster glanced at Moody for him to take centre stage.  
Moody stood up and joined Dumbledore.  
“The bottom line is, the Ministry doesn’t know what’s causing these vicious storms, and they’re treating Harry as hostile. If he’s found and caught, it won’t be gentle. The boy has only just discovered that wizards even exist. If his first interaction is to be taken and thrown in a cell, he may never recover.”  
Nods of agreement went around the room, before Mundungus Fletcher threw his voice into the room.  
“Listen, now, I ain’t pointin’ no fingers, but it’s gotta be said. How do we know the boy _ain’t_ the reason for all the storms?”  
Several members threw looks of disgust at Mundungus, but Moody treated the question with respect.  
“Whatever has been causing these storms is doing so through Dark magic. Powerful Dark magic. Harry doesn’t even know how to use his wand, let alone destroy Diagon Alley. No, these storms aren’t being caused by Harry, they’re being targeted _at_ Harry, which is the other reason we need to find him soon.  
“Targeted _at_ him?” Minerva McGonagall asked, a new addition to the Order. “Dumbledore, what’s he saying? Who would do such a thing?”  
“Who else?” Lupin interjected darkly, standing from his seat. “It’s clear, isn’t it? We all know there’s only one person out there who would want Harry Potter dead.”  
A shake of the head appeared to be the common reaction to Lupin’s remarks.  
“He’s gone” Diggle said hopefully. “Harry took care of that, didn’t he, Dumbledore?”  
Dumbledore turned to Snape. “Severus, please. Tell them.”  
Snape stood hesitantly and faced the crowd.  
“My...my dark mark has been burning lately. It hasn’t done that in nearly a decade.”  
A solemn silence fell across the meeting.  
“One of his followers, then,” Emmeline Vance suggested, not wanting to believe the implication.  
Lupin shook his head, growing in frustration by the minute.  
“This Order was brought together to defeat one wizard and one wizard only, and Dumbledore knows that. Surely none of you believe he would bring us together for any other reason?”  
Lupin then turned his attention to Dumbledore. “Albus, please. Quit speaking in riddles and tell them. Tell them what you think.”  
The Order look at Dumbledore expectantly, waiting for his words of wisdom.  
He cleared his throat.  
“Given recent events and the Dark magic needed to commit them, I can think of no other logical conclusion than that...”  
He paused, dreading having to say the words aloud to them.  
“I believe Lord Voldemort has returned.”  
There were no sighs. There was no groaning or shaking of the head. As Lupin sat back down in his seat, silence descended upon the Order of the Phoenix.  
“It’s all happening again,” Mundungus Fletcher whispered to his whisky, taking a brave gulp.  
“Harry must be found, Goddamnit!” Moody roared, coming to life. “We don’t have time to sit around and pity ourselves. Years of fighting, years of sacrifice, it all goes out the window if we let that boy fall into the wrong hands.”  
Several people clapped their hands together as a surge of encouragement swept through them.  
“Where do we start?” Elphias Doge asked.  
“Muggle transport,” Dumbledore responded. “As little as Harry understands the wizarding world, he trusts it even less. I believe Harry is headed for Hogwarts, and to get here he’ll use some sort of Muggle invention. It may be a car, a boat, a plane, maybe even a train. Whatever it is, we have to get there before the ministry.”  
“I’ve convinced the Aurors Department to focus on wizarding transport,” Moody added. “Although, Fudge is breathing down my neck and if no results are yielded soon, he’ll chuck a wizard on every plane, train and automobile from here to Beauxbatons.”  
“We need to get cracking then,” Lupin encouraged. “We need to divide ourselves across several areas, commit to different transports.”  
“Woah woah woah, hold on. Before that, we need answers,” Podmore declared.  
He levelled his eyes on Dumbledore. “How’s he doing it? How’s Voldemort causing so much destruction? He wasn’t capable of that even at his peak.”  
“I have my suspicions,” Dumbledore responded, “but nothing solid. I need to consult my books and make a few visits before I speculate further.”  
Podmore was clearly not satisfied with the answer, but he let it be. There were more important matters to be had.  
“If there are no further questions, I officially bring a close to this meeting. Welcome back, everyone, and please be quick. Time is of the essence.”  
As the Order circled around Lupin to receive their delegated tasks, Moody approached Dumbledore.  
“What’s next for you, professor?”  
Dumbledore stroked his silver beard as he contemplated his next actions.  
“I believe I may know what is behind these attacks, Alastor. But I need to visit an old friend to make sure.”  
“Where will I be able to find you?”  
“Oh, I won’t be long,” Dumbledore assured him.  
And with that, he turned and strolled out of the Hog’s Head, deep in thought.


	12. Scotland Express

Harry stood on the platform at King’s Cross Station waiting impatiently for the Virgin Trains East Coast to take him to Inverness, Scotland.  
He eyed a vending machine thirstily, eventually deciding on a Coco-Cola. He had only just cracked it open and taken a refreshing sip when the train pulled into the station and he hopped on board.  
It was a large, rather luxurious train, and there weren’t many people getting on. There’d be plenty of space for Harry to relax and not be disturbed, as he wanted to avoid being with other people as much as he could.  
Once the train took off, a female voice rang out over the intercom.  
“Please note that the Virgin Trains East Coast, stopping Inverness, shall take approximately eight hours. Sit back, relax, and enjoy your trip. Thank you for riding with Virgin.”  
Harry didn’t need any encouraging to relax. As soon as he was sure he had the compartment to himself, he stretched his legs out and laid down on the seat, closing his eyes.

Proudfoot stood at the edge of the bridge, watching for any sign of the train. Behind her, Savage and Sprewett were deep in disagreement.  
“There’s no way he’s on the train,” Savage declared. “You saw the boy, he looked homeless. Where on earth would he have gotten the Muggle money to afford a train like that?”  
“The Muggle minister contacted Fudge and let him know. I’ve seen the images myself; the boy was at King’s Cross, and he got on this exact train. We’ll find him here.”  
“And is it just us? No backup?”  
“Moody said he might send for more people.”  
“If you two are done pussyfooting around,” Proudfoot cut in, “I think I see the train.”  
Savage and Sprewett moved to her side and peered down the bridge. Sure enough, the train had emerged from around a corner and was coming towards the bridge.  
“The driver needs plenty of warning,” Proudfoot warned. “These Muggle trains take quite a while to stop. You should go now.”  
With a smile, Savage pulled out his wand and concentrated.

Harry’s sleep was disrupted when the train suddenly came to a stop.  
_Are we in Scotland already? Did I sleep the whole eight hours?_  
Sitting up excitedly, Harry glanced out the window of his compartment and was surprised to see that they were on the middle of a bridge, at a complete standstill.  
_Why would we stop on a bridge?_  
Then a voice rang over the intercom and answered Harry’s question. It was the female voice from earlier.  
“Good evening, passengers. There is no need to be alarmed. We spotted some rather large objects on the train and have briefly paused to remove them. This shall only cause a slight delay, so just kick back, relax and enjoy the Virgin experience. Thank you.”  
From the hallway, Harry heard a young voice say “I’ve been enjoying it for seventeen years, thanks”, promptly followed by a loud slap and an older woman hissing “Adam!”  
Harry eased up once the message had been delivered, reassured that there was nothing to worry about. He returned to his semi-comfortable sleeping position, but quickly found he could not sleep. Something deep in his stomach was disturbing him, making him feel as if something was wrong.  
_I need to move. Now._

Once the train had come to a complete standstill, the three Aurors eyed the front of the train for an empty compartment. In luck, they spotted several.  
Proudfoot took control of the situation, pointing one out to her two co-workers.  
And then, in a flash, they were gone.

Harry stepped out into the corridor just as the train started moving again. He looked up and down, but could see nothing. All appeared to be well, but the feeling in Harry’s stomach would not go away. He walked awkwardly to the end of the carriage and entered the toilet, figuring that maybe he had some pipes to empty.

“Keep your wands away at all times,” Proudfoot ordered. The two men nodded.  
“Remember, he’s just a boy,” she continued. “He’s not behind the attacks, he merely knows something. Be gentle with him; innocent until proven guilty. As far as we know, this is an innocent child who we believe may have answers. Clear?”  
Sprewett nodded, while Savage gave a sigh of disappointment.  
“Okay, let’s go find him.”

Harry was sitting on the toilet seat, out of breath when he heard footsteps come past the toilet and continue down the carriage.  
He thought nothing of it.

“Excuse me, ma’am, but have you seen this boy?”  
“I’m afraid not – oh, excuse me! I have a question; where do you do your shopping? Quite an odd sense of fashion, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“Sir, I was wondering if you’d seen this boy.”  
“Why? What’s he done? No, I ain’t seen ‘im.”

Savage held up the photo to the woman and her son, a young man most likely still in Muggle school.  
“Excuse me, madam, but I was wondering if you’d seen this boy by any chance?”  
The young man looked Savage up and down suspiciously. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Didn’t lock him up tight enough? He’s escaped the basement? Better find him before the police.”  
Savage didn’t laugh. The woman gave him a sharp kick in the shin, causing him to yelp in pain. This brought a momentary smile to Savage’s face.  
“I’m sorry, he doesn’t think before he speaks,” the woman apologised on his behalf. “Are you with the police?”  
“You could say. The boy is a person of interest in a case.”  
Savage felt rather witty, knowing he had not lied to the woman.  
“Well, yes. I’ve seen him on the train.”  
“Could you show me where?”  
The woman nodded, leaning over to her son.  
“Do _not_ leave this compartment, Adam.”  
“Aw, Mum! I’m nearly seventeen!”  
“But you act like a six-year-old, so keep your arse planted here.”  
The woman then stood up, brushed hair out of her eyes and gave Savage a smile.  
“Shall we?”

Harry flushed the toilet, having crossed his bowels off of the list of potential causes of his uneasy feeling. After washing his hands, he opened the toilet door and stepped out into the carriage.  
“...in here, I believe I saw him go. Oh, apparently not. I’m sorry about that; I could’ve sworn he was...”  
The woman, who was standing outside Harry’s compartment with a man Harry couldn’t see, stopped talking when she saw Harry standing at the other end of the carriage. The man caught onto it, turning around and giving Harry his first good look at him.  
It was one of the strange people who had been in the ruins in Little Whinging.  
One of the three who had broken into Number Four, Privet Drive and tormented the Dursleys.  
One of the wizards who were hunting Harry down. The panic rose in his throat.  
The man’s face slowly broke into a wicked smile.

“Gotcha,” Savage whispered to himself, desperately resisting the urge to whip out his wand and paralyse the little bastard where he stood.  
Then, quick as a flash, he turned and ripped open the carriage door and hopped into the next one.  
Savage’s smile grew even broader.  
_I love a good chase._

Harry had run from people before. This was not new to him. All throughout his years at school, he had run from Dudley’s gang on repeat occasions. Once he had even magically ended up on the roof, which Harry now had some explanation for. He had also run from the teenage boys in Privet Drive the night of the storm, but in all those situations he knew he’d live. He knew that he may get hurt a bit, but he’d come out okay.  
This time, Harry Potter did not know if he would come out okay.  
This time, Harry Potter was running for his life.  
From carriage to carriage, Harry went as fast as he could, not daring to look behind for fear it would slow him down.  
The sound of the carriage door opening behind him was not getting closer, so Harry knew he was holding his own so far. But eventually he would run out of carriages, and would have to face the man.  
Until then, Harry intended on rapidly thinking of an alternative before he got to the end of the train, but time was running out.  
That was when the hand shot out and wrapped him up, bringing him to a stop.  
He looked up and saw a most frightening sight, before being thrown into a dark room, the door being shut behind him.  
“Don’t make a sound.” the voice said from the other side.

 _Quit it, you little bastard. I’m getting tired of this._  
Savage didn’t mind a chase, so long as it ended when he wanted it to. This one was certainly not doing that.  
Every time he swung a carriage door open, he could see the boy at the end opening the next one. But until Savage hustled to the end and opened the door himself, the boy was out of his view. This short space of time, roughly seven seconds, was the most dangerous part of the chase. It was seven seconds that the boy was completely out of view, seven seconds to hide or try something cheeky.  
Savage’s fear of the seven seconds were fulfilled when he threw a carriage door open and stepped in, not seeing the boy anywhere.  
However, standing next to the toilet in the middle of the carriage was someone else entirely, someone Savage had not expected to see.

Harry sat shaking in the corner of the room, terrified.  
When he looked up at the person holding him, he had looked directly into an eye that did not seem in the least bit connected to the rest of the body. Sitting next to an equally terrifying nose with a large chunk taken out of it, the man’s eye had drifted about, almost independently around in its socket, moving from Harry to the carriage door in rapid-fire fashion. Then he had thrown Harry into the bathroom and shut the door.  
Then Harry heard the carriage door fly open, followed by several seconds of silence.  
“Moody? What’re you doing here?” a very puffed out voice asked.  
“I told you I was getting backup, didn’t I?” a gruff voice responded.  
“Yeah, but I...I was chasing the boy. He ran through here, surely you saw him?”  
“No one’s come through here, Savage.”  
“But I saw him! He must be here, hiding in the toilet-”  
Harry heard the toilet doorhandle jiggle as if a hand had come down on it.  
“He’s not in there, Savage. And put your wand away, goddamnit!”  
The doorhandle eased up as the hand disappeared.  
“Go retrace your steps. He must’ve fooled you.”  
“But I swear he was-”  
“Well you were wrong, now go. Follow your orders.”  
Harry could only imagine the sulky face the man had pulled as he walked away, but after several seconds the carriage door opened and closed with a dull thud, and then the toilet door ripped open.  
“You’re more trouble than you’re worth, you know that, boy?”  
Harry didn’t like the way he called him ‘boy’. It reminded him of Uncle Vernon, and Uncle Vernon made him angry.  
“Who are you?”  
“I’m Moody, and I’m here to take you.”  
“Take me where?”  
“Somewhere safe. Albus Dumbledore sent me.”  
With his crazy eye and his vague answers, Harry did not trust this man at all. But the mention of Dumbledore was promising; he needed more.  
“Where were you going?” Moody asked.  
“Hogwarts.”  
“Why?”  
“Dumbledore told me to.”  
Moody screwed up his face, showing obvious confusion. This said all Harry needed to know; the man wasn’t with Dumbledore. He could feel himself getting angrier and angrier by the second. Everything was confusing, and he couldn’t get straight answers from anyone. Hagrid had been the only person helping him, and he’d been killed by the storm, which Harry knew to be the work of a Dark wizard.  
It had to be Voldemort. No one else would want Harry dead that much.  
Harry reached into his jacket pocket and breathed a sigh of relief; he had the stone.  
“What do you mean ‘Dumbledore told me to’?”  
“He’s been speaking to me in my dreams.”  
Moody’s face became even more quizzical, before breaking into pure anger.  
“The lying bastard, I swear I’ll-”  
Harry jumped to his feet, incensed by Moody’s choice of words. He felt an odd need to defend Dumbledore.  
“Don’t call him that!” Harry roared with a ferocity he did not know he had.  
Moody looked at Harry and something changed in his eyes. He took a step back, as the anger in his face was replaced with confusion, and then fear.  
“Harry, calm down.”  
“How do you know my name?” Harry roared again. “Who are you?!”  
Everything around Harry was beginning to spin. He was becoming increasingly dizzy, and could feel himself losing consciousness.  
“Harry, please, you need to calm down. I’m here to help you, I was sent by Albus Dumbl-”  
“STOP LYING TO ME!” Harry screamed, as all turned to black and he fell backwards into an abyss.  
The last things he heard as he drifted away was the crunching of steel, the high-pitched grating of metal and an inhuman scream coming from right in front of him.


	13. Harry Potter and Where to Find Him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *WARNING* - This chapter - and the rest of the story afterward - contains heavy spoilers from the film 'Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them'. If you have not yet seen the film, be wary when continuing.

Albus Dumbledore arrived at the cottage in Dorset in the early afternoon, conflicted as he prepared to greet his old friend.  
He watched as three kneazles jumped down from the roof and landed gracefully on the ground, approaching Dumbledore with familiarity and warmth.  
“Why, hello friends,” Dumbledore greeted with a smile. “Hoppy, Milly, Mauler, how have you been getting on all these years?”  
As he bent down to pet them, they each nuzzled into him affectionately. Then, when the sound of the front door opening interrupted their attention session, they fled persecution.  
“Albus,” came a familiar female voice. ‘What are you doing here?”  
Albus stood up and faced her, seeing the warmth leave her face as soon as she registered his expression.  
“You know he’s not well, Albus. He can’t handle anything serious.”  
Albus shook his head regretfully.  
“My apologies, Porpentina. But it is a most urgent matter. You know I would not have come if it weren’t.”  
She stared at Dumbledore for a long time, wondering whether or not to let him in. Finally, a smile forced its way onto her face.  
“For the millionth time, call me Tina. Come in.”

Dumbledore had always loved coming here. His old friend’s peculiar sense of decoration had always been accompanied by a warmth, an unknown quality that encouraged Dumbledore to relax in his chair and, oh yes, certainly stay for one more drink. Thank you, Tina.  
But there was no comfort this time. The joy had left the household long before Dumbledore had arrived, much to Tina’s disappointment.  
Dumbledore’s host sat in a chair facing the backyard, smiling as he marvelled upon his garden. This made Dumbledore smile in turn; this man had seen his garden a million times, and yet he still smiled every time he looked upon it as if it were the first time.  
The smile disappeared when he remembered that – in some ways – it may have been the first time he looked upon his garden.  
As he sat down, Dumbledore mused about how many had said the headmaster was the strangest, most curious person they’d ever met. Dumbledore, however, held absolutely no candle to Newt Scamander, who was by far the most unique being Dumbledore had ever had the privilege of knowing.  
And now he was losing his mind.  
“Newt,” Dumbledore whispered carefully, gaining Scamander’s attention. He turned and saw Dumbledore, a fantastic smile spreading across his face.  
“Albus! How wonderful to see you, my friend!”  
He leapt from his chair with the energy of a Third Year and wrapped Dumbledore up in the most affectionate of hugs.  
“Tina, could you please prepare some tea? Or maybe some firewhisky; Dumbledore’s here!”  
“I know, Newt,” Tina said from the corner of the room, almost shaking with nerves. She was desperate to know what Dumbledore wanted. “I’ll make some tea.”  
Newt’s grin remained on his face as he turned his attention back to Dumbledore.  
“How are things at Hogwarts?”  
“Things are very good, Newt. Thank you.”  
“Think that Black boy will give you any more issues? Boy, do I love the stories you’ve told me. Sounds like a fascinating character; shall I add him to the next edition of my book?”  
Dumbledore laughed, just as he had the last time they had this conversation. “Sirius Black shall not be an issue this year, I don’t think.”  
“A shame, I can only sit and pray he outdoes himself in the coming months.”  
Dumbledore had grown quite accustomed to Newt’s memory dips, dropping in and out of different years and eras, although it did still leave some small part of him uneasy.  
“I was wondering, Newt, if you’d heard about these attacks recently? The storm in Little Whinging and Diagon Alley.”  
“And the train,” Newt added, shifting into business mode.  
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, just as Tina entered the room with a pot of tea and three small teacups.  
“There was a similar attack about an hour ago, on a No-Maj train headed for Scotland. We got a breaking news owl from the _Daily Prophet_. A lot of people dead.”  
Dumbledore could feel the conversation grow far more urgent with the news of a third attack.  
“I wonder, have you seen any images of the attack?”  
“Newt doesn’t read the paper anymore,” Tina answered, then leaning across to Dumbledore. “It can confuse him, makes him rather upset.”  
“What attacks?” Newt asked.  
Dumbledore realised he would have to approach this from another angle.  
“Newt...do you remember what happened in New York, in 1926?”  
Tina stiffened in her seat. Dumbledore knew she had been there too, and was aware of where this sat in Newt’s conscience.  
“Albus, is this really-”  
“I’m afraid it is,” Dumbledore replied quickly. Tina remained quiet.  
Newt nodded darkly. “Grindelwald,” he whispered, more to himself than to Dumbledore.  
“What else can you tell me about 1926?”  
Newt shrugged. “A lot happened in New York. There was the Muggle, what was his name, Tina? Kowalski, like that Muggle movie with the famous man? And what else, oh yes, my bag of creatures broke loose, that was a hassle. Ah, let’s see...”  
Dumbledore needed to speed up proceedings.  
“Tell me about Credence.”  
Tina closed her eyes shut tight, as if praying for things to turn out okay. The mention of Credence had her on edge. Apparently, it had Newt on edge too.  
“Obscurus,” he whispered, once again to himself, his eyes drifting down to his feet.  
Then, he looked up with a smile on his face.  
“Do you think that Sirius Black is gonna give you any more issues this year? He sounds like a Gryffindor, alright.”  
Tina looked at Dumbledore pleadingly, wanting him to stop. Dumbledore could not.  
“Do you have any copies of yesterday’s _Daily Prophet_?” he asked her.  
She nodded solemnly.

Newt had been in the middle of telling Dumbledore the story – for the seventh time – of his most recent lecture at Beauxbatons Academy of Magic when Tina returned with the previous day’s edition of the _Daily Prophet_.  
Dumbledore ignored the image of Harry emerging from the Leaky Cauldron and flipped through to the large article on the Diagon Alley attack. He passed the paper over to Newt, who then inspected the images of the destruction.  
“Newt, what creature do you think caused all that?”  
Newt stroked his chin as he watched, deep in thought. Finally, he arrived at his conclusion.  
“Where did you get these pictures? This must be a very old paper.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“These photos are from New York, aren’t they? All that nasty business with Grindelwald in ’26.”  
Realising he had an opportunity, Dumbledore nodded. “Yes, Newt. 1926. Tell me about what happened. Tell me about Credence.”  
“Ah, Credence,” Newt began, sadness clouding around his eyes. “That was...unfortunate.”  
“What happened, Newt?”  
Dumbledore could see all of the joy draining from Newt’s entire body as he began speaking. “Credence was an Obscurial. Before wizards went underground, when we were still being hunted by muggles, young witches and wizards sometimes tried to suppress their magic to avoid persecution. So instead of learning to harness or to control their powers, they developed what was called an Obscurus.”  
“What exactly is an Obscurus?”  
Tina stepped in this time. “Dark magic,” she said. “Powerful Dark magic.”  
“But it’s not the Obscurial’s fault. They have hardly any control. If someone makes them angry, and I mean really angry, the Obscurus takes control. It’s a parasite; the Obscurial can hardly resist it.”  
“Once the Obscurus assumes control of the body, does the Obscurial have a say in its actions?”  
Newt shrugged. “It varies. Credence seemed to have some degree of control, although he was guided more by his fury than his mind. And afterwards, he seemed fully aware of what he had done. Another time, in Africa...”  
Newt’s voice trailed off as he stopped talking, looking out the window and into his garden again. Dumbledore knew he may lose Newt now, that Newt always looked to his garden in times of trouble. It had a calming effect on him. It took him to another place, another time...  
“The girl in Africa had no idea what was inside of her,” Tina continued. “When Newt tried to take it out of her, she had no clue what he was doing. He can’t know for sure, no one can, but he thinks that’s why she...”  
“Why she died?”  
Tina nodded. “He said the Obscurial needs to know and understand, otherwise there’s too much resistance. The body unknowingly protects the parasite, and dies in the process.”  
Newt returned to the conversation, a smile on his face. No doubt he was about to ask Dumbledore about Sirius Black when he looked down and saw the _Daily Prophet._  
“I haven’t seen this sort of destruction since...”  
He looked up at Tina and handed her the paper. “Do you think it could be?”  
Not wanting to encourage him, she didn’t respond.  
“Well?” he said expectantly.  
Slowly, she nodded.  
Newt turned to Dumbledore.  
“Is this in London?”  
Dumbledore nodded.  
“When?”  
“Yesterday.”  
“Impossible, there hasn’t been an Obscurus in these parts in over a century.”  
“There’s one here, now.”  
Newt gave Dumbledore a sympathetic look.  
“You know this child?”  
Dumbledore nodded.  
“No one has ever survived an Obscurus.”  
“I know.”  
They stared at each other a long time, neither of them saying a word.  
“Tina said you think you know what went wrong in Africa.”  
“I do,” Newt replied, his voice laced with regret.  
“If given another chance, do you think you could save the child?”  
“I know I could.”  
Dumbledore glanced at Tina, who was staring at him with tears in her eyes.  
_Please, Dumbledore, don’t take him away. He can’t handle._  
Dumbledore’s eyes spoke right back.  
_I’m sorry, Porpentina. I don’t have a choice._  
Dumbledore turned back to Newt.  
“I can give you that chance.”  
Newt’s eyes lit up in a way Tina hadn’t seen them light up in decades.  
It was over. Newt was in.

Their bags were packed in ten minutes, and in fifteen they were out the door.  
As he stood outside and waited for the Scamanders, Dumbledore thought over all that he had discovered. Though there was much to be done yet, two things about the situation had become clear.

England was under attack from an Obscurus.

England was under attack from Harry Potter.


	14. The Voyage Ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *NOTE* - This chapter was accidentally posted PRIOR to the previous chapter, which needs to be read first. So, if this 'new' chapter look oddly familiar to you, head on back to Chapter 13 and catch up with Dumbledore!

_The dream had lasted far longer than any others, and Harry could feel his body growing weary, rather than resting._  
_For what felt like hours, he had experienced what he came to realise was his mother’s murder, over and over and over again._  
_There was a cycle; he watched her shadow grow closer, she begged and pleaded with Voldemort, he yelled a spell and everything flashed with a green light. And then it started all over again._  
_Soon enough, safety arrived. The green light was replaced with white, and Albus Dumbledore returned._  
_“No matter where you go, they’ll find you,” Dumbledore warned. “There is only one way you can come to me undetected.”_  
_“How?!” Harry demanded, knowing Dumbledore couldn’t hear him._  
_“Floo powder, Harry. Find a fireplace and use floo powder.”_  
_“Floo powder? I don’t know what that is!” Harry yelled, but it was pointless. The white light had already begun fading, and Harry could feel himself being pulled back to consciousness._

When Harry awoke, he was more confused than he had ever been before. And given recent events, that was really saying something.  
He was lying in dirt and staring up at the sky. After rubbing his eyes and focusing, he could see trees above him. And then, when he sat up and looked around, he realised he was in a forest.  
He got to his feet and felt around him. Wherever he was, he didn’t have his backpack with him and he’d lost all of his clothes and Muggle money. Luckily, he had the stone in his jacket, along with some galleons that may get him by, should he find somewhere wizarding related.  
First things first, though. He needed to figure out where the hell he was.  
He began walking through the woods until he hit a road, and could see smoke rising from further down the road.  
A town.

It was only a five-minute walk down the road before Harry hit a sign that let him know where he was. Well, sort of, he’d never heard of Godric’s Hollow before, although he could feel familiarity ringing out through his whole body.  
He was on the outskirts of the village, and could see that there was a large obelisk in the centre. His interest piqued, he pushed on to the village square.  
It wasn’t much of a village, but Harry liked it. In the square it had only a church, a post office, a pub and several retail shops. The obelisk, however, was absent.  
Replacing it in the middle of the square was a strange statue, unlike one Harry had ever seen before. It showed a man and a woman sitting together, a small baby in the woman’s arms. Harry couldn’t help but smile as he gazed upon the statue. It gave off a homely feel, something that inspired comfort within Harry. And then he looked down at the engraving and it all went away.

_In loving memory of James and Lily Potter_

_Dedicated to Harry Potter_

Harry Potter had never seen his parents before. James and Lily Potter had only ever appeared to him as fantasies, faces he had created.  
Suddenly, it hit Harry that this was it. In eleven years, he had no memories of seeing his parents. Not in the flesh, not in a photo, not in anything.  
And now – crafted in bronze – he was seeing them for the first time.  
He didn’t feel joy, or wonder, or relief.  
He felt sad.  
This was where it had happened. Harry couldn’t believe he’d forgotten. Just days earlier, Janus had told him in the Leaky Cauldron.  
_He went to Godric’s Hollow one night, hell-bent on killing the Potters..._  
“Harry,” a voice behind him called.  
Harry whipped around, quick as a flash, and saw a little old woman watching him.  
“It’s Harry, isn’t it?” she said with a smile, hardly believing it to be true. Harry was scared.  
“I don’t know how I got here...who are you?”  
She approached Harry, looking perfectly welcoming. Harry, however, did not feel in a very trusting mood. He jumped back, bumping into the statue. The woman laughed.  
“You won’t find anywhere to sit, there. You’re already taking up all the room!”  
“Who are you?” he begged, fear welling up again.  
“Oh, my sweet child, please be still. My name is Bathilda Bagshot.”  
Harry didn’t let his memory fail him again.  
‘ _A History of Magic’ by Bathilda Bagshot_.  
This woman was the author of one of his schoolbooks.  
“I knew your mother, quite well,” she continued. “Would you like to see her?”

The graveyard at Godric’s Hollow was only small, with very few graves. Bathilda Bagshot led Harry straight to the centre, where she rested a hand on his shoulder as he knelt down before two graves.  
A tombstone covering both read;

_The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death._

James and Lily Potter, resting side-by-side for eternity. Something about that made Harry happy. He stared at the vacant spot next to them and wondered if it had been left for him.  
He had been without them for a decade, he didn’t much feel like being without them anymore.  
“Why don’t we come back to my place, Harry. We can talk there.”  
Harry agreed. He trusted her, and he desperately needed to rest. He was exhausted.

Bathilda Bagshot’s kitchen was a busy, comfortable little place. She flew about from here to there, making tea and summoning scones and jam and more. Harry feasted upon everything she gave him, filling his stomach to the brim with all sorts of delicious little sweets.  
“If you’ll excuse me for just a moment,” she smiled, stepping into another room.  
Several moments later, Harry noticed an owl fly past the window and away from the house, but thought nothing of it. If he’d been more eagle-eyed, he’d have noticed that the owl had a letter attached to it.  
Bathilda entered the room again a moment later, the sweet smile still on her face.  
“How did you know it was me?” Harry asked.  
“You walked past me on your way to the square, and I recognised you instantly. You may be the spitting image of your father, a little thing, but...”  
She leaned forward and inspected Harry closely.  
“...you have your mother’s eyes.”  
Harry felt his heart give way.  
_You have your mother’s eyes._  
He would never, ever forget that. He would hold onto that for the rest of his life.  
“I knew her quite well,” Bathilda continued. “They were my neighbours, of course. She came over quite often and we’d do this; tea, sweets and a lovely conversation.”  
Harry smiled. His own mother had sat in this kitchen and had tea with Bathilda Bagshot. Somehow, he felt closer to her. He wanted to know everything there was to know about James and Lily Potter, but there were more urgent matters at hand.  
“Mrs Bagshot, I was wondering...how do you use Floo powder?”  
Her eyes glanced briefly towards her fireplace, but then back to Harry just as quick.  
“What would you bother with Floo powder for? You’re safe here.”  
Her unwillingness to answer the question gave Harry an odd feeling. Suddenly, he didn’t feel so comfortable.  
“Have you ever been to Hogsmeade? Apparently that’s near Hogwarts. I’ll be going to school there this year.”  
Bathilda embraced the change of topic, pleased.  
“I’ve been to Hogsmeade plenty of times. I’ve spent many a late night at the Three Broomsticks Inn while I was teaching.”  
“You were a teacher?”  
She nodded enthusiastically. “I taught History of Magic at Hogwarts. Even wrote a little book about it.”  
Over the next half hour – or maybe it was an hour, Harry lost track of time – Bathilda Bagshot told Harry all about Hogwarts and the subjects he would be taking, even telling him a little about Uric the Oddball and the International Statute of Secrecy.  
Suddenly, something caught her attention and she excused herself, saying she’d be right back.  
Harry took the moment to stretch his legs and walk around the kitchen, as he had been sitting down for quite some time.  
He looked through some papers on the kitchen bench; magazines, flyers, letters regarding book sales. Hidden beneath it all, Harry glimpsed what he thought was a newspaper. It had ‘ _The Daily Prophet_ ’ written in big, bold letters with the headline ‘ **NO NEW DEVELOPMENTS IN DIAGON ALLEY ATTACK** ’.  
Harry pulled the newspaper out and opened it, his stomach immediately going cold.  
There was a large drawing of him, with ‘ **HAVE YOU SEEN THIS BOY** ’ spread above it. Below, a 300 galleon reward was offered for valuable information regarding Harry’s whereabouts. Suddenly, Bathilda’s absence concerned Harry. He needed to move.  
He rushed to the fireplace, knowing that it had something to do with Floo powder. Then he noticed a big pot filled with a dark powder, labelled ‘Floo powder’. It couldn’t have been more obvious.  
He then looked at the fireplace, and thought back to the Leaky Cauldron. He had seen men disappear and reappear in the fireplace, but only after dropping the powder into the ground and saying something.  
Harry rushed back to the kitchen bench and looked out the window. Bathilda was speaking to someone at the front gate, someone who looked up and saw Harry at the window.  
The man sprinted into the house, and Harry sprinted to the fireplace, grabbing a handful of Floo powder.  
Here goes nothing.  
Harry could only assume that he needed to say the name of the place he was going. Hagrid had told Harry that charms protected Hogwarts from entry via certain magic, so he didn’t want to risk that. And Hogsmeade sounded too general.  
_I’ve been to Hogsmeade plenty of times. I’ve spent many a late night at the Three Broomsticks Inn while I was teaching._  
Harry had his location, and then said it aloud.  
“The Three Broomsticks Inn!”  
He dropped the Floo powder, and was absorbed in the same green flame he’d seen at the Leaky Cauldron.

It felt as though he were being sucked down a giant drain. He seemed to be spinning very fast — the roaring in his ears was deafening — he tried to keep his eyes open but the whirl of green flames made him feel sick. Squinting through his glasses he saw a blurred stream of fireplaces and snatched glimpses of the rooms beyond — Bathilda Bagshot’s scones were churning inside his stomach — and he closed his eyes again wishing it would stop, and then —

He fell, face forward, onto a hard wooden floor. He sat up and, as he wiped the ash out of his eyes, heard a woman speak.  
“Well, that was a nasty entrance. How are you feeling?”  
Harry opened his eyes to see that he was at a bar of some kind, although no one else was there. Just Harry and the woman standing over him.  
“Welcome to the Three Broomsticks,” she began. “I’m Madam Rosmerta. Can I help you?”  
“I’m in Hogsmeade?” Harry asked excitedly. Madam Rosmerta nodded.  
Harry let out a large squeal of joy, which made the woman laugh.  
“Would you be wanting a room? Booking ahead for your parents?”  
Harry nodded, pleased that Madam Rosmerta had done all the work for him. There was no need to lie.  
Once he had paid and it was all taken care of, Harry was shown to his three bed room and left to his own devices.  
_I need Dumbledore’s instructions._  
Exhausted, Harry collapsed onto the nearest bed and let sleep consume him, waiting for the comforting voice.

_There was no darkness. No Lily, and no snake-like voice. There was only Harry and the light._  
_“Harry,” Dumbledore began. “You have come so far, I just need you to go a little further.”_  
_“I will,” Harry promised._  
_“You cannot come to the castle,” Dumbledore warned. “The Ministry have arrived and are looking for you. Go instead to the woods beside the lake, I will meet you there. It is safe, Harry. Let your instincts guide you, and you will find me.”_  
_And with that, the white cleared and Harry felt consciousness returning once again._

The sleep could not have lasted more than an hour, and Harry felt terrible. He was tired, his body ached and he had no energy.

But worst of all was the sharp pain he felt on his forehead.


	15. Into the Forest

The second they arrived at Hogwarts, Dumbledore knew something was wrong.  
Waiting at the front entrance was a wizard Dumbledore had met on several occasions, a high-ranking member of the Auror Department; Kingsley Shacklebolt.  
McGonagall stood beside him, bickering. When she saw Dumbledore, she came forward to greet him.  
“I’m so sorry, Albus. I tried to calm him down, but he refused to listen. I told him that you-”  
“I will be giving you a very brief window to explain yourself, Dumbledore,” Shacklebolt warned suddenly, eyeing Newt and Tina cautiously.  
“Kingsley, I can’t imagine what would have you worked up like this,” Dumbledore replied coolly.  
“I have spoken to Mad Eye. Somehow he survived that horrific scrap on the train.” Shacklebolt paused before continuing, not wanting to finish. “Sprewett wasn’t quite as lucky.”  
Dumbledore bowed his head in acknowledgement, as Shacklebolt continued.  
“I know you’re in touch with the boy. Alastor convinced me to speak to you first before going to Fudge. He was adamant that, against his better judgement, you may have some explanation.”  
During the course of their journey to Hogwarts, the presence of Newt and Tina had slowly untied the knot in Dumbledore’s stomach. Suddenly, it was back again.  
“Please come inside, Kingsley. I believe we have much to discuss. I also have some people I need to contact. I believe it to be pivotal that you meet the Order.”

Harry couldn’t believe his legs were still working. He was exhausted and could hardly feel them as he trudged through the forest. The sun was setting across the sky, and as the woods grew darker, Harry’s fear grew stronger. There was something about this place that inspired unease. Everywhere he moved, it felt like something was rustling in the bushes. The trees felt like spies, watching Harry’s every move and reporting them further down the line to their superior, whoever that may be.  
But Harry was safe. Every time his fear hit boiling point and he could sense something about to strike, he was filled with ease as the danger suddenly disappeared. It felt as if he were protected in some way.  
Dumbledore had been right; Harry did know the way. Something inside was urging him onwards, like a compass in his chest pushing him in the direction he needed to go. Every now and then, paranoia would get the better of him and he’d check his pocket to make sure the stone was still there. He didn’t want to disappoint Dumbledore, after all the help he’d received.  
The only issue was his forehead. The scar had been burning ever since he awoke in the Three Broomsticks. At first it had been bearable, but the closer he got to his destination, the worse it was.  
Finally, Harry’s shoes hit water, and he became aware of the lake that had appeared before him. He was close, he could feel it. He traced around the edge of the lake, managing a glance at the gigantic castle not far from where he was.  
_Hogwarts._  
But Harry’s vision was blurred as he staggered around the lake, and he could only make out the lights and the towers. But even with his limited vision, Hogwarts was a sight to behold.  
It was then that Harry spotted the clearing. It was between two large trees that appeared to be guarding the entrance, and Harry could just make out a figure standing within.  
_Dumbledore!_  
Harry picked up speed as he made for the clearing, desperate for safety and, most importantly, a warm bed to sleep in until September 1st.  
Once Harry passed the guard trees and entered the clearing, he could see the figure far better. The pain in his forehead increased.  
It was definitely a human, it had the right shape for it. But it was drenched in a large black cape, with a black hood covering the face. The appearance was every bit as sinister as Harry could’ve pictured in his head.  
“Dumbledore?” Harry asked wearily, before dropping to his knees and clutching his forehead. The pain was unbearable, and he felt he may pass out at any second.  
There was a sickening, familiar cackling as two hands pulled back the hood – but it wasn’t Dumbledore. It was...


	16. The Man with Two Faces

...a man Harry had only ever seen once, when he entered the Leaky Cauldron for the first time. A pale young wizard who had kept to himself in the corner of the bar, fidgeting nervously. Harry identified him easily by the purple turban wrapped around his head.

“No, Potter. Not Dumbledore,” he snarled. “Someone much more powerful.”  
Harry squinted and could see, lying on the ground several metres behind the man, were several beautiful horses, with horns coming out of their heads. Against his better judgement, Harry assumed they were unicorns. Except they were dead. Their necks were drenched in a silvery liquid that was slowly dripping out of a large gash. The only explanation was that it was blood.  
_The stone_.  
The voice had returned to Harry’s head, contacting him for the very first time when Harry was awake. Almost against his will, Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out the stone, studying it.  
“Yes, the stone. You have it!” the man squealed with delight. “My master will be very pleased.”  
“Your master? Is it Dumbledore?” Harry asked excitedly.  
The man laughed hysterically, before extending his hand expectantly.  
“Give me the stone.”  
Harry looked from the hand to the stone, and back again, considering his actions.  
“What is it?”  
The man’s face screwed up. “Do you not even know what you hold in your hand? That there is the Philosopher’s Stone, the key to eternal life.”  
Suddenly, the stone felt far heavier in Harry’s hand, as he worked his way back to his feet.  
“The stone, boy. Hand it over.” the man urged Harry impatiently.  
Harry shook his head defiantly.  
“I don’t think I will.”  
The man’s face transformed into a furious scowl, as he whipped around and took several steps away from Harry.  
_Let me see the boy._  
“No, Master. You’re not strong enough.”  
Harry couldn’t believe it.  
_He can hear the voice too!_  
The man threw a sideways glance at Harry as the voice continued,  
_I have strength enough! If I can reach the boy from across the country, I can face him in the flesh._  
The man conceded, reaching up to his turban and beginning to unravel. Harry felt a level of fear and anxiety he had never before experienced as more of the man’s bald head was revealed. Once it was off, he slowly turned around.  
Harry would have screamed, but he couldn't make a sound. Where there should have been a back to the man's head, there was a face, the most terrible face Harry had ever seen. It was chalk white with glaring red eyes and slits for nostrils, like a snake.  
"Harry Potter..." it whispered.  
Harry once again fell to the ground, his forehead feeling like it would split right open.  
Looking back up at the creature attached to the man’s head, Harry couldn’t help but wonder if this was him. The man Aunt Petunia had spoken of fearfully, the man Hagrid was hesitant to name, the man that had killed Harry’s parents.  
The face smiled.  
“Yes, boy. It is I.”  
Harry shook his head, refusing to believe it. He didn’t know if the word that flowed through his head afterwards came from his own mind, or if the creature put it there.  
_Voldemort_.

 

“Thank you, once again, for gathering on such short notice.”  
The Order of the Phoenix all stood together in Dumbledore’s Office, with Kingsley Shacklebolt and the Scamanders joining them. Dumbledore had had time to explain it all to the Auror, who had eased up considerably.  
“What happened to Mad Eye?” Podmore demanded, receiving support from the group.  
“Alastor Moody fell victim to the creature responsible for the attacks on Little Whinging and Diagon Alley.”  
“What creature?” Emmeline Vance demanded. “Do you know what it is?”  
Dumbledore nodded.  
“England has been terrorised by a creature known as an Obscurus.”  
Dumbledore allowed the revelation to sink in, as silence swept across the group.  
“An Obscurus,” Lupin clarified, bringing them all back to life. “But... Albus. How did an Obscurus grow within Harry?”  
Dumbledore could feel McGonagall’s gaze on him.  
_I warned you not to leave him with those Muggles._  
“An Obscurus is born of deep physical or psychological trauma,” Newt said, entering the fray. “Harry must have grown up in harsh circumstances to have had his magic suppressed in such a way as to produce powerful Dark magic like an Obscurus.”  
A chorus of whispers began, slowly rising to shouts of anger.  
Dumbledore raised his arms.  
“Silence!”  
Within seconds, all was quiet again.  
“There is more than meets the eye in this situation,” Dumbledore began. “When Harry Potter defeated Lord Voldemort, he did so at a cost. The scar on Harry’s forehead is more than just a memoir of that horrible event. It’s a mark, the mark of evil. Voldemort left Harry with a piece of his soul.”  
There were several yells of protest.  
“Harry Potter is evil?”  
“He needs to be stopped, look at all the destruction he has caused.”  
“Harry Potter is not responsible!” Lupin yelled. “An Obscurus is like a parasite. When one is taken over by a darker part of their being, they do not always have control. Sometimes we do things, horrible things, and we can’t stop ourselves.”  
Dumbledore caught Lupin’s eyes.  
_Thank you._  
“Harry is being manipulated,” Kingsley Shacklebolt spoke up. “I spoke with Mad Eye, and he told me that Harry has been in contact with a voice claiming to be Albus Dumbledore. This voice has been guiding him towards Hogwarts.”  
“Why would someone _pretend_ to be Dumbledore, only to guide him to the real Dumbledore?”  
“They wouldn’t,” Shacklebolt replied. “Whoever is pretending to be Dumbledore is here. They are guiding Harry so they can find him here.”  
Glances were thrown across the room. Members studied each other with distrust, wondering who was the faux Dumbledore.  
‘Fear not, friends,” Dumbledore interrupted. “The culprit, I believe, is not in this room.  
Only one person has the power and the ability to contact Harry Potter directly. The very person who gave a piece of their soul to him.”  
The silence that passed through the room was filled with a single, unutterable name.  
_Voldemort._

 

“I’m not giving you the stone,” Harry declared bravely. “I’ll _never_ help you return.”

The voice cackled, a cackle Harry had heard in his dreams. In his nightmares.  
“I never left, Harry. You may have gotten lucky once, but it could never be permanent.”  
“You’re weak,” Harry spat. “You can’t even support yourself. You need _him_.”  
“It is no different to when I defeated your parents. Every Dark Lord needs followers, and Quiverus here is just a follower.”  
“You didn’t _defeat_ my parents, you killed them!”  
“Just as I’ll do to you, if you don’t give me the stone!”  
“You couldn’t do it ten years ago, and you can’t do it now.”  
Voldemort’s face turned from a furious sneer to a smile of admiration.  
“Yes, yes. Like your father, you are. A fighter, I like that.”  
Harry did not know how to respond to this, so he remained silent.  
“Tell me, Harry. Have you ever felt power? _True_ power?”  
Harry remained silent.  
“I can show it to you. I can _give_ it to you.”  
“Is that what you told him?” Harry asked, nodding at the man Voldemort was latched to.  
“Did you promise him power you can’t give him?”  
“No, Harry. I showed him, just as I’ll show you.”  
Voldemort took a step forward and Harry’s scar seared with pain again. Voldemort’s hand reached out and hovered above Harry’s forehead, as all went black around him.

 

“If he’s powerful enough to speak to Harry, then what else can he do?”  
“I don’t know,” Dumbledore responded. “All that matters now is that he’s somewhere nearby, otherwise he would not have called Harry here.”  
“What does he want with Harry?” Mundungus Fletcher asked.  
“Isn’t it obvious?” Podmore snarled. “He wants to finish what he started all those years ago. Harry Potter is a beacon of hope in the wizarding world, and his death will be a massive blow.”  
“ _Would_ be a massive blow,” Lupin corrected aggressively. “The boy is not dead yet, don’t give up on him. If what Dumbledore says is true, Harry is more powerful than Voldemort could ever hope to be.”  
“There may be another reason he wants Harry,” Dumbledore said, “although I am not entirely sure whether Voldemort is aware of this or not.”  
The group waited impatiently for Dumbledore to elaborate.  
“Harry Potter is, I believe, in possession of the Philosopher’s Stone.”  
One by one, the faces around the room dropped.  
“Shit.” Mundungus Fletcher muttered.

 

 _It was cold. Not from the weather, but from something else. Harry was chilled to his spine._  
_He stepped forward, moving through a tiny little village. It looked familiar. If only they added the statue of the Potters to the village square, Harry would’ve sworn it was Godric’s Hollow._  
_He wasn’t in his body, he knew that for sure. He was much bigger than he had ever been in his life._  
_He continued walking through the town, finally pausing in front of a pretty house. In the situation, however, there was nothing comforting about the house. Harry had the feeling that something bad was about to happen in this house._  
_He looked into the top window of the house and saw three people; a man, a woman and a baby. The man was lifting the baby into the air and laughing, as the woman beside him smiled. The man was rather tall, wore glasses and had an untidy matte of jet black hair on his head. Harry wondered if perhaps he was seeing a vision of himself as an adult. The woman, on the other hand, had thick, dark red hair that fell to her shoulders. She was beautiful. Harry felt the faintest trace of warmth flow through his body, though it was quickly shut out._  
_Suddenly, the man looked out the window and saw Harry, quickly passing the child off to the woman and yelling something, and then all three of them disappeared from the window._  
_Harry proceeded along the footpath and to the front door, where he held out a wand and whispered “Alohamora”, opening the door afterwards._  
_He stepped into the hallway just as the man flew down the stairs and disappeared into a room. Harry rushed in after him, and saw the man reaching for a wand. Harry raised his own wand, pointing it at the man.  
“Avada Kedavra!”  
There was a familiar green flash as the light tore through the man, forcing him to collapse lifelessly to the ground._  
_Harry did not stick around, turning and leaving the room and proceeding upstairs. He could hear a child’s screams coming from one room, as a woman pleaded for him to be quiet._  
_Harry moved into the room, seeing the woman bent over a crib, urging the child to stay silent._  
_“Stand aside,” Harry said in a spine-tingling, snake-like voice._  
_“No,” the woman said, tears forming in her eyes. “Leave my boy alone.”_  
_“You know just as well as I that I’m not leaving until that boy is dead.” Harry declared.  
“Stand aside and spare yourself. I have promised a most loyal follower that you shall remain unharmed.”_  
_“Sorry to disappoint you,” she snarled. “But I’m not giving my boy to you. Now leave! Go! Leave Harry alone!”_  
_Harry surveyed the room, realising he’d been here before. But he’d seen it all from another view._  
_The woman began sobbing heavily._  
_“Please leave Harry alone. You’ve already taken James, please don’t take my Harry!” Harry knew he should be empathising with this woman, but he couldn’t. He could feel nothing._  
_“Foolish girl.” Harry spoke angrily. He raised his wand and repeated the words he’d  
spoken to the man downstairs._  
_“Avada Kedavra!”_  
_A familiar green flash filled the room, as the woman collapsed to the ground in the same manner that the man had._  
_Harry stepped forward and peered into the crib at a screaming young child left without his parents._  
_He may not yet have had the scar on his forehead, but Harry knew exactly who he was looking at._  
_The man downstairs was James Potter, his father._  
_The woman on the ground next to him was Lily Potter, his mother._  
_And the boy in the crib, staring at him helplessly, was himself._  
_It was Harry Potter._

 

“I don’t need to remind you all how important it is that Voldemort _never_ gets his hands on the Philosopher’s Stone. If he did, the wizarding world would be done. He could return to full power, and...he could kill Harry Potter.”  
“How the hell’s Harry Potter gotten hold of the Philosopher’s Stone?” Mundungus Fletcher asked.  
‘What’s the Philosopher’s Stone?” Dedalus Diggle whispered to Emmeline Vance next to him. She ignored him.  
“That isn’t important at the moment,” Dumbledore responded to Mundungus. “What matters right now is finding Harry and keeping him from handing Voldemort the key to eternal life.”  
“But where do we start?” Emmeline Vance asked.  
“He can’t have gotten into the castle,” McGonagall said. “We’d have known.”  
“There are a few places he could have hidden outside of the grounds. The Shrieking Shack?” Lupin suggested.  
Dumbledore was about to speak when a deafening bang rang out through the room, originating from outside.  
“What the hell was that?!’ Mundungus Fletcher screamed.

Dumbledore rushed to the window, Newt alongside him, and glanced out into the landscape.  
In the Forbidden Forest, just next to the lake, a large cloud had formed over the trees. It was black and oily, and appeared to be alive in some strange way.  
Newt’s eyes widened with fear.  
“Obscurus.” he whispered.


	17. The Eye of the Storm

Harry roared to life, emerging from the horrible dream and rising into the air, much to the shock and delight of the creature in front of him.  
“Incredible,” Voldemort whispered. “I’ve read of the power of the Obscurus, but to see it...it’s a sight to behold.”  
Harry glanced around, and could not believe what he saw.  
Shooting out of his body from all directions was an oily, cloud-like substance that seemed to be constantly expanding. His body floated in the air, held up by the weightless smoke cloud.  
“What is this?!” Harry screamed. “What’s happening to me?”  
“Power!” Voldemort yelled. “I told you I would show you power, Harry. This is power!”  
“I don’t want it!”  
“Only because you can’t control it. Come with me, let me teach you. I can show you how to control your power. I can show you how to control your destiny.”  
“You murdered my parents, I saw it. Why would you show me that?”  
“I had to unlock it, Harry. I had to convince you to let out the fury, just as I’ve always done.”  
Suddenly, it all made sense. The storm, the bad dreams, all of it. Harry had this horrible creature, this demon, buried deep within him. And Voldemort, who was somehow in Harry’s head, was forcing Harry to relive that horrible night ten years ago to provoke the demon.  
“Your parents held no power, Harry. They were weak, they did not control their own destiny. You have a chance to make up for their mistakes. Don’t allow yourself to be controlled any longer. Come with me, I can teach you. Together we can be masters of fate!”  
Harry hated the fact that he was considering Voldemort’s offer.  
“You could do anything you wanted,” Voldemort continued. “You could take life when you please, you could live forever, and you could even bring others back from the dead. You, your mother, your father. You could be a family again.  
Harry felt tears beginning to run down his face.  
_You could be a family again._  
Harry felt his body lowering to the ground, returning to Voldemort.  
“Think, Harry. Think of all the people you have destroyed. The bully in Little Whinging, the man on the train who lied. You are more powerful than even you understand, but I’ll teach you how to tame the beast within.”  
Suddenly, Harry’s mind was filled with visions. Floating through Little Whinging, finding the boys who had attacked him and tearing them apart, one by one. Breaking free of the Leaky Cauldron in a fit of rage, destroying all in his path. Breaking the train into pieces and finding as many of the wizards as he could, only managing to rip one of them to shreds.  
After all of his running, Harry had discovered that he himself was the monster at the end of the story. He wanted to be rid of this destructive demon, but that did not appear to be an option. Voldemort was offering to teach him how to control it, which would be far better than carrying on murdering innocent people.  
“Harry! Stay away from him, he’s lying!”  
Harry’s body jerked back into the air, far above Voldemort. He turned to see who had called out to him, and spied a familiar face. One that had appeared in a Witches and Wizards card, accompanied by a voice that had spoken to him in his dreams.  
“I’m here to help,” said Albus Dumbledore, accompanied by half-a-dozen people Harry had never seen before.  
Harry noticed Voldemort take a step back, caught off guard and seemingly frightened by Dumbledore’s presence. He then regained control of himself.  
“Would you really listen to him, Harry? How can he call me a liar? I’m the only one who has been honest with you.”  
“He’s manipulating you,” a man with strange scratches on his face yelled out. “He’s done it before, to a friend of mine. He made him betray his friends, don’t let him make you betray your family.”  
“What do you know of my family?” Harry roared, zeroing in on the scarred man.  
“And what does Dumbledore know of the truth?” Voldemort added, siding with Harry.  
“How can they speak of family when Voldemort is the one who condemned you to live with those filthy muggles? I wouldn’t have sent you to those horrible people, Harry. Dumbledore did. He kept you from the very world you can rule by my side.”  
Harry turned on Dumbledore’s group, prepared to strike, when the scarred man ran forward.  
“Harry, stop!” he yelled. “My name is Remus Lupin, and your father was my very best friend.”  
Harry paused, reconsidering his course of action. Dumbledore stepped forward, joining Lupin.  
“Harry, I did send you to live with the Dursleys. I am sorry, I am fully responsible for all your suffering over the last ten years. I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I was merely trying to protect you from-”  
“LIAR!” Harry screamed, sending a burst of energy throughout the black mass that surrounded him.  
Dumbledore, Lupin and their group all ducked, terrified of what Harry may do.  
“You’re using me!” Harry yelled at Dumbledore. “You’re just like everyone else, you’re using me!”  
“For what?” Dumbledore pleaded. “Harry, please, what are we using you for? We just want you to be safe.”  
“You’re using me to stop him!” Harry screamed, turning to Voldemort. “Well you can stop. I don’t need your lies.”  
Harry, suddenly in control of the black mass, brought it in close around him like two large, black claws.  
“I can do it myself.”  
There was an inhuman scream as the black mass flew in at Voldemort, clawing the body apart and ripping it into two pieces. As Dumbledore’s group screamed, a ghost-like figure flew out from the man’s body and disappeared into the night.  
“YOU’RE ALL LIARS!” the Obscurus roared, turning the talons on the group and making them twice as large.  
The first swing sent Dumbledore and Lupin flying, while the second came down hard on the centre of the group. The Obscurus attacked the group with less ferocity than it had destroyed the man’s body, but there was no doubt still an intent to kill. Members of the Order sprinted for the trees, taking cover. Many of them drew their wands, preparing for a fight.  
“No!” Newt Scamander screamed. “Don’t attack him, it’ll all be over.”  
“Exactly!” Podmore yelled back, moving out from behind the tree and pointing his wand at the Obscurus. He was just as quickly sent flying, disappearing in a cloud of black.  
Newt turned to his wife.  
“I’m sorry, Porpentina. I have to go.”  
Tina began shaking her head incredulously.  
“What, no- Newt. You can’t. Look at it, it’s far worse than Credence. You can’t save him!”  
“I have to try. You know I do.”  
Tina began sobbing, begging him not to go. He wiped the tears from her cheek and smiled.  
“I love you, darling. You don’t need to stress; I’ve had sixty-five years to prepare for this.”  
He leaned in and kissed her hard, before he pulled away and scrambled to his feet, sprinting into the eye of the storm.  
“I love you too, Newton.”  
He disappeared into a hazy fog of dirt and oil.

 

Floating in the air, half-conscious and with no idea what was happening, Harry saw a strange old man work his way towards him.  
“How did you get here?” Harry asked weakly. “It’s not killing you.”  
Newt smiled at Harry. “This is what Muggles call ‘the eye of the storm’. It’s the part where you’re safe from the chaos around it.”  
“Why are you here?” Harry asked.  
“I’m here to help,” Newt promised. “I’ve seen one of these before, and I can take it out of you.”  
Harry began sobbing heavily, like he never had before.  
“Please,” he begged. “Get it out of me, I don’t want to hurt anyone else.”  
Newt pulled out his wand and, once again, gave Harry a reassuring smile.  
“Okay, Harry Potter. Let’s get this damned thing out of you.”

 

Dumbledore crawled to Tina, she was curled up into a ball, screaming.  
“Porpentina, what’s wrong? Where is Newt?”  
She opened her eyes and saw Dumbledore, turning her sorrow into rage, hitting him as hard as she could.  
“This is all your fault! You put these foolish ideas into his head about Credence and saving Harry!”  
Dumbledore wrestled Tina off of him and looked to the source of the destruction, which was hidden in a tornado of black.  
_Good luck, Newt._

 

“Push, you have to push!”  
“I can’t!”  
Newt desperately tried to hold onto his wand as it twisted and turned all about. Harry wreathed in pain as the black substance was forced from his chest, sending ripples of pain through his heart and head.  
“Stay with me, Harry. I need you to fight.”  
“I’m trying!”  
Newt began to notice that the tornado around them was closing in, the Obscurus clearly realising it was being withdrawn from its host.  
The operation had become more urgent, and Newt had to move faster.  
“We’re running out of time, Harry. It’s nearly there.”  
The pain had now spread to Harry’s thighs and forearms, continuing throughout his body.  
Soon his entire body would be screaming for mercy, and he would have to give in.  
Newt, on the other hand, had been here before. And he refused to give up.  
“I’m not leaving you, Harry. Be strong. Fight, goddamnit! Fight like your parents, don’t give up!”  
The mention of his parents sent Harry’s mind spinning back to moments earlier.  
_Stand aside and spare yourself. I have promised a most loyal follower that you shall remain unharmed._  
_Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not giving my boy to you. Now leave! Go! Leave Harry alone!_  
Harry’s mother had died refusing to let Voldemort kill him, and now Harry was fighting for his own life. All that his mother and father had sacrificed would be forgotten if he allowed himself to fall at this moment.  
With a defiant roar, Harry pushed with all his might and watched as the demonic cloud began retreating from his body far quicker than it had been before.  
The storm was growing louder as it closed in on them. If Newt moved back even a centimetre, he would have been swept away.  
“GOOD, HARRY! KEEP PUSHING!”  
Harry continued going, but it wasn’t fast enough. Harry saw the light in Newt’s eyes disappear, replaced with a look of regret.  
“Push,” he urged Harry desperately. “I can help you, Credence. You just have to push.”  
_Credence?_  
Harry pushed nonetheless, as the tornado closed in further. Newt knew the Obscurus was moving too fast.  
“COME ON, CREDENCE. PUSH!”  
“GET IT OUT!”  
“CREDENCE!”   
As all went to black, the last thing Harry saw was the strange old man throw himself forward, into the tiny black mass that had been forced out of Harry’s body. All around him lit up, as he heard what could only be an explosion.  
And then, black.

 

The light had blinded everyone, sending them staggering. And then the overpowering wind that swept through sent many of them flying back a few metres.  
As soon as it was over, they all looked up cautiously. The black mass was gone, and all was quiet.  
The silence was broken by a woman’s cry.  
“Newt!”  
  


Porpentina Scamander sprinted to the centre of the crater that had formed around Harry and Newt, collapsing onto her husband with Dumbledore close behind her. She took him into her arms and began slapping his face, urging him to wake up. Dumbledore looked at his arms and saw that the veins had turned black, filled with something other than blood.  
Dumbledore then stepped forward and took the boy into his arms. He put a finger to his neck and felt a pulse.  
_He’s still alive!_  
“Minerva!” Dumbledore yelled. “Get Harry to the hospital wing, quickly. He’s still alive.”  
Dumbledore then turned his attention to Newt, whose face was now being drenched in the tears and kisses of Porpentina, who shook her head in disbelief.  
“He’s gone, he’s gone. I can’t believe it.”  
Her cries rang out through the night, as the Order of the Phoenix made a circle around Newt Scamander and bowed their heads in respect.  
For the years to come that Porpentina remained on this earth, she was always comforted by the look Newt had on his face. Lying there, lifeless, he had a smile that said plenty to her. His lips had curved in just the perfect way so as to deliver a final message;  
_I did it, Porpentina. I saved him._


	18. After the Storm

Something gold was glinting just above Harry. He tried to reach out and grab it, but his arms were too heavy.  
He blinked.  
It was a pair of glasses. How strange.  
He blinked again.  
The smiling face of Albus Dumbledore came into view above him.  
“Good afternoon, Harry,” said Dumbledore. Harry stared at him. He had spent days searching for this man, only to discover he was a lie. A mask used by Lord Voldemort to lure Harry, and the Philosopher’s Stone, into the open.  
“Did you send Hagrid?” Harry asked, hoping to separate the lies from the truth.  
Dumbledore nodded. “And I am pleased to report that he will make a full recovery. The people at St. Mungo’s say he is doing very well.”  
Harry had never heard of St. Mungo’s, and could only assume it was a hospital. Nonetheless, he was extraordinarily relieved to hear that Hagrid was okay.  
Harry looked around and saw that he himself was in a hospital of some sort. Dumbledore read his mind.  
“You are at Hogwarts, Harry. I suppose a welcome is in order. This is the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey should be through any second now. She shall be quite relieved to see you awake.”  
“How long was I out for?”  
“Several weeks,” Dumbledore replied. “We were beginning to worry that you may never wake up. An injury of this kind has never been seen before. As Newt said, no one has ever survived an Obscurus.”  
Harry raised his eyebrows at the final word, prompting an explanation from Dumbledore. When he was finished, Harry mulled it all over in his mind.  
“So this....Obscurus thing, it happened because of the Dursleys?”  
Dumbledore shifted slightly in his seat.  
“The truth is a beautiful and terrible thing, Harry, and therefore should be treated with great caution. However, I shall answer your questions unless I have a very good reason not to, in which case I beg you’ll forgive me. I shall not, of course, lie. In some ways, yes, the Dursleys did create the Obscurus. I’m sorry, Harry. It may take you a very long time to understand, but giving you to them was the best thing for you.”  
Harry could feel himself getting angry, but not the way he used to. This time it felt far more controlled, far more...human. He didn’t like the way Dumbledore spoke to him as if he knew more, as if there were still things Harry couldn’t know.  
“But,” Dumbledore continued, “I believe there were other factors. I believe you held an Obscurus inside you for the same reason that Voldemort could speak directly to your mind and pretend to be me.”  
“And what is that?”  
“You carry a piece of him inside you.”  
Harry looked down at his chest, confused. He ran a hand across it, remembering the pain as the black substance had been pulled from him.  
“What do you mean?”  
Dumbledore sat back in his chair. “Magic is a complex thing, Harry, especially to a mind like yours that has hardly encountered it. An explanation for why Voldemort could do these things may be hard to convey. As I’m sure you know by now, your mother died to save you. If there is one thing Voldemort cannot understand, it is love. He didn’t realise that love as powerful as your mother’s for you leaves a mark. Not a scar, not a visible sign...to have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection forever. When Voldemort tried to kill you that night in Godric’s Hollow, he came face-to-face with a magic more powerful than he could imagine. He came face-to-face with love.”  
“But why could he speak to me in my dreams?”  
“Because when his spell backfired, it opened both of you up momentarily. You each lost a piece of your soul, and then immediately filled the space. Your piece went into him, and what little of him disappeared went into you. He could speak to you, Harry, quite simply because you carry a piece of him inside you.”  
Harry froze. It was hard to digest.  
_A piece of Voldemort...inside me?  
_ “It took the anger you felt and turned it into a monster. That Obscurus was not you, Harry. It was Voldemort. Anything that happened, any damage you caused, was because of him, not you.”  
Harry bowed his head, trying hard not to think about the people he’d hurt, even killed. He thought of the boys that attacked him on Privet Drive.  
_That wasn’t Voldemort, that was me.  
Am I a monster?  
_ “What about the Philosopher’s Stone?” Harry asked. “What happened to it?”  
“It has been destroyed,” Dumbledore announced. “I have spoken to Nicolas Flamel. He and his wife have enough Elixir stored to set their affairs in order and then, unfortunately, they will die.”  
Harry nodded, not fully understanding but having nothing else to say.  
“What’s going to happen to me?”  
Dumbledore stiffened. “It will be difficult, but I believe I can sort out any mess with the Ministry. As for your education, you shall stay here, at Hogwarts, until the first day of term, in a week. We even had new schoolbooks brought to you, direct from the publishers.”  
Harry looked at the bedside table and saw a pile of books, all of which he had bought days earlier at Diagon Alley.  
“Oh, and this was recovered from the rubble of the Leaky Cauldron,” Dumbledore added, reaching out and handing Harry a wand. Harry inspected it, seeing it was the exact same wand he had been given by Mr Ollivander.  
“Thank you,” Harry muttered.  
Dumbledore stood up to leave.  
“Who was he?” Harry asked.  
Dumbledore raised his eyebrows quizzically.  
“The man who saved me,” Harry elaborated.  
Dumbledore took his seat again.  
“He was...a close friend.”  
Dumbledore reached a hand over to Harry’s schoolbooks and grabbed one off the top, handing it to Harry.  
“He even wrote one of your schoolbooks.”  
Harry inspected it. ‘ _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them’ by Newt Scamander_. Harry turned to the back and opened, seeing the portrait of a smiling wizard staring back at him. It was, without a doubt, the man who had pulled the Obscurus out of Harry and then thrown himself into it.  
“How is he?” Harry asked.  
For the first time in the conversation, Dumbledore appeared to betray some emotion.  
“He did not survive,” Dumbledore said sadly.  
_Another person who’s died for me._  
“In the middle of it all, when the creature was nearly out of me, something strange happened. He...he called me ‘Credence’.”  
“Ah yes,” Dumbledore responded with interest. “Several years ago, Newt developed what the Muggle world calls ‘dementia’. Quite simply, he drifted between different periods of his life. And I believe that, in the middle of all the chaos, he was brought back to another time. Newt knew another boy like you, a boy named Credence.”  
“Why did he sacrifice himself? He’d never met me before.”  
Dumbledore exhaled.  
“I don’t believe Newt ever forgave himself for letting Credence die. In you, he saw another chance, an opportunity to go back to 1926 and correct his mistakes. You need to understand, Harry, that Newt chose to die. And he died happily.”  
Clearly, Dumbledore did not wish to speak anymore, as he stood up and began to leave.  
“One last thing,” Harry called to him. “Voldemort...is he still out there?”  
Dumbledore nodded, with a smile. “I believe he is, but you need not worry about him, Harry. We’ll be ready for him. He is weak and powerless, and will continue trying to return. As long as we are there to stop him at every turn, his return shall never become a reality.”  
With that, Dumbledore left, and Harry opened his copy of ‘Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them’.

 

The next week passed dreadfully slowly. Madam Pomfrey refused to let Harry out of bed for most of the week, and so Harry explored very little of the grounds. During his time couped up, however, he received two very special visits.  
First was Rubeus Hagrid, fresh out of St. Mungo’s. He had given Harry some treats (“Rock cakes, I call ‘em”) and told him he’d have come down and visit him in his hut once he was well and able. Harry happily agreed, just pleased to see that the half-giant was alive. Hagrid also gave Harry a present; a handsome, leather-covered book. Harry opened it curiously. It was full of wizard photographs. Smiling and waving at him from every page were his mother and father.  
“Sent owls off ter all yer parents’ old school friends, askin’ fer photos...knew yeh didn’ have any...d’yeh like it?”  
Harry couldn’t speak, but Hagrid understood.  
Second was Remus Lupin, the man who had claimed James Potter was his best friend. He told Harry all about his father and what a troublemaker he was. He answered any and all questions Harry had about his parents, and was good company. Harry was glad to finally have someone in his life who was willing to speak about his parents without the tone of disgust that the Dursleys always used. Lupin also told Harry that the man Voldemort had clung himself to was Quirinus Quirrell, the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. With him gone, Lupin would be filling in for Harry’s First Year.  
While he sat in his bed, Harry read through each and every one of his schoolbooks, paying particular attention to ‘Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them’. Harry wanted to repay Newt for what he’d done, but couldn’t think of a way.  
_I’ll figure out a way. I have no idea how, but I’ll figure one out._

 

Finally, September 1st arrived and, once the students had begun arriving, Harry was dressed into his school robes and thrown in amongst the other First Years. Thankful no one knew who he was, Harry entered the Great Hall for the Sorting Ceremony, which Lupin had told him all about.  
When Harry’s name was called out, silence swept over the Great Hall. Nervously, Harry approached the Sorting Hat and sat down in the chair.  
“Hmm,” said a small voice in his ear. “Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind either. There’s talent, my goodness, yes – and a nice thirst to prove yourself, now that’s interesting...so where shall I put you?”  
_Gryffindor, like my father. Gryffindor, like my mother._  
“Gryffindor?” the voice asked. “Why not Slytherin? You could be great, you know, and Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that – no? Well, if you’re sure – better be GRYFFINDOR!”  
Harry let out a huge sigh of relief, making his way to the table that was applauding the loudest. Harry took a seat next to a girl with very bushy brown hair and rather large front teeth. She extended her hand.  
“Hermione Granger,” she said very matter-of-factly. “And you’re Harry Potter!”  
Harry nodded, unsure of what else to say.  
Several moments later “Weasley, Ronald” was sorted as the final Gryffindor, taking his seat next to Harry and nervously asking to see the scar on Harry’s forehead.

 

And the rest, as you know, is history.


End file.
